


The Ringmaster

by sangueuk



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-21
Updated: 2011-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-15 20:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangueuk/pseuds/sangueuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Summary</b>: AU set sometime in the 19C before medical hygiene and dermal regenerators, McCoy, the circus hobo clown is summoned by ringmaster, Kirk, who needs some medical attention.<br/><b>Warnings</b>: There’s a fleeting appearance by a snake. (I love snakes but I know some people don’t.) A teeny, wee bit gory.<br/><b>Disclaimer</b>: I mean no offence and court no profits, these boys belong to others more talented and deserving, I merely borrow them, play a while then return them all cleaned up and smiley.<br/>Intriguing snippet: <i> The only sound as Kirk unbuttoned his pants was the tick - tock of the clock by the bed. McCoy’s breath slowed, spellbound by Kirk’s long, pale fingers moving over the mother of pearl and fawn colored buckskin.</i></p><p>Thanks to  abigail89  for beta reading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ringmaster part 1

**The Ringmaster**

McCoy’s battered medical bag swung in his left hand, gray wool coat in the other. Scuffed boots carried him through drying mud and sawdust towards the ringmaster’s trailer. It would be dark soon and he’d need to dress for the show. A trickle of people had gathered behind the rope at the entrance. Nerves formed their stubborn creases and tight folds in his stomach already. He glanced up at the sky as it bled around the edges; another day he’d never get back. The irony of his life wasn’t lost on him. Here he was, paid to make people laugh, yet he couldn’t say he found any damn part of his clown act funny.

The Captain’s trailer was just a few more yards so McCoy put down his bag, wedged his coat between his thighs, threw his creased, collarless shirt on over his tank and buttoned about half the buttons, making sure they were skewed and finished by tucking part of the shirt-tails into his dusty pants. He pulled blue and white striped suspenders over his shoulders and stamped his foot to get the goddamned boot to stay on with all the laces untied. He scooped off his beaten up bowler hat and slapped at the dust on its crown, then jammed it firmly on his head. Each day that passed, it got easier and easier to look like a hobo without trying.

He looked up when the door ahead of him opened and the snake-dancer slunk out. Not yet in costume, she wore a dark blue silk shift tossed over a training leotard, fishnet tights and, of course, Keenser, the royal ball python seemed tense across her shoulders, his narrow head darting, tasting the cooling air. The snake froze into the shape of a storm damaged branch against the darkening sky when they reached McCoy.

“Evening, Leonard,” Nyota purred. They both watched Keenser arch towards McCoy from his soft perch, amber eyes level with his. McCoy passed his hand in front of Keenser’s nostrils and quivering tongue. “He remembers you,“ Nyota said.

“Yeah, well…” He hadn’t expected this, when he’d run away to the circus, that he’d like the animals so much, nor that they’d see past his grouchy bullshit and like him right back. Fine, long as every one else left him the hell alone. He winked at Keenser and frowned at Nyota as she sashayed away, ankle bells tinkling over bare feet and gold and black snakeskin ‘wrap’ shimmering in the low sun.

McCoy made a fist to rap on the door of the trailer and managed to whip it back just as it flew open and James Tiberius Kirk loomed on the step, pale eyes stealing some of the sun’s last light.

“Ah…” he said.

“Ah?” McCoy said.

“You came…”

“I did.”

A freshly shaved Kirk leaned toward him, all white teeth and hot whiskey breath, and McCoy resisted the urge to pull back. He hadn’t seen the man they called ‘The Captain’ this close up before, only at a distance decked out in his full ringmaster regalia. Under the spotlights, his blue eyes gleamed like stained glass; the whip in his hand, birch and twisted leather against kid glove, made him look ethereal. Now, despite the unmistakable authority, McCoy could see the freckles on his face, the individual hairs in eyebrows that belonged on the face of an older man, and he looked, well…human.

McCoy had turned up a month ago, belongings in a carpet bag and a hipflask near his heart and, in all that time, the Captain had never once caught his eye or acknowledged his existence. In fact, it was as if wherever McCoy went, Kirk would leave in the opposite direction. “You haven’t done your face,” Kirk said.

“Well, Chekov said I shouldn’t. Your orders.” McCoy noticed a lipstick print on Kirk’s cheekbone, and something on the other man’s breath he hadn’t smelled up close since before he walked out on Jocelyn.

“You’d better come in.” Kirk led the way into his trailer and McCoy raked his eyes over buckskin breeches, straining over the fine curve of the Captain’s ass. He gripped the handle of his medicine bag hard.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior. Kirk sat down in an armchair, his legs crossed, a smirk on his face. The smell of sex, candle wax, and patchouli oil from Nyota’s recent visit tickled the back of McCoy’s throat and made his tired cock stir.

“That bitch got me.” Kirk said, easing up to loosen his suspenders, the armchair creaking under his weight, “I must have dropped my guard or something but, she got me.”

“Who? Nyota?”

“No, you ass, Missy.” The alpha lioness. Kirk’s richly purred chuckle, ran through McCoy’s belly like a knife.

“I’d better take a look,” McCoy set his bag down. “Where? Where did she get you?”

Kirk indicated a muscular thigh with a lazy gesture and the air in the trailer drew close.

“Lower your pants,” McCoy said. He took his hat off and rested it on the small table which bore the solitary source of light, a wide church candle almost burned down that cast wave shaped shadows along the walls each time one of them moved.

The only sound as Kirk unbuttoned his pants was the tick - tock of the clock by the bed. McCoy’s breath slowed, spellbound by Kirk’s long, pale fingers moving over the mother of pearl and fawn colored buckskin. Kirk’s hands wavered and McCoy became acutely aware of the other man’s eyes on his face. He felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle and an unexpected heat in his baggy pants. He dared not look up, dared not speak in case his voice came out like a kitten squeak.

Somehow he managed not to gasp, watching as Kirk slid hands down hips to lower the breeches. He could hear the rasp of buckskin down strong, pale thighs. A drum roll could have accompanied Kirk as he stretched back to his full height, one hand lifting the starched shirt tail aside like a curtain to reveal a foot-long gash across his thigh, a bloody brush stroke in reverse, seeping at the narrow end.

“Shit,” McCoy said.

“She’s one jealous woman, _Bones_.”

And McCoy understood why, his keen sense of smell brought the faint scent of Nyota from Kirk’s lips and groin, as he ducked his head to examine the wound. He pulled the candle closer and the flame made Kirk’s pupils contract. McCoy fancied he could see this man through the poor, lovesick beast’s eyes. If Kirk had belonged to him, he’d want to hurt anyone who touched him.

“Yeah, jealous,” McCoy echoed. He reached for his bag, and pushed the footstool closer with his boot. Kirk shrugged, his face impassive, his shoulder length, dirty blond mane shifting about his exposed neck. Kirk must have stepped between Nyota and the lioness.

With a wince, Kirk sat and the wound opened a little.

“Need this stitched up, Bones,” he said. The name had stuck and McCoy could do nothing about that now. “Before I ruin my favorite pants.”

McCoy grunted. He needed to concentrate, to keep a steady hand, this man, his contained power was unsettling him…

“Si’down,” he drawled, “and you’ll need this-.” He reached into his breast pocket, fingers sliding over silk lining to find his hip flask.

Kirk lowered his eyes, turned the silver base in large hands, ran his thumb along the leather top and flipped the silver stopper. McCoy caught himself staring at Kirk’s throat as he gulped down the whiskey. He managed to pull his gaze away only to settle on sensuous lips drawing on the silver nipple.

Kirk drew the back of his hand across whore’s lips, slapped the stopper tight with the palm of his hand and reached across the space between them which thrummed and twitched in anticipation each time one of them moved towards the other.

Heartbeat taunting him, McCoy went to the wash stand to pour water into the basin, took a cloth, and carefully cleaned the wound, Kirk watching all the while. He squatted on the stool at Kirk’s feet, the captain’s knee between his open legs, almost level with his chest so he could reach and stitch. He threaded the needle, and went to work, his left hand pressed against Kirk’s inner thigh, acutely aware of the fine sheen of sweat forming under it, his middle finger an inch away from…he snipped the first stitch. He couldn’t help looking up before he continued and he saw Kirk’s bottom lip folded under teeth, the only sign so far he’d felt anything.

At the second stitch, Kirk curved his hips up, shifting at the sharp pain of needle in flesh, the tug of catgut, whiskey-breath misting around McCoy’s face as he sewed. Perhaps that’s why he felt a little giddy, he thought, pressing down with the palm of his left hand, the heat from Kirk’s groin flooding through him.

“So, what’s your story, Bones?” Kirk’s voice was low, interested.

“I’m a clown, not a minstrel, sir,” McCoy said, ignoring the unasked for nickname, like it might go away. He kept his eyes on his work, watching how Kirk’s left hand flexed on the armrest while he rode out the pain.

“Man of few words, huh?”

“Could say that.” He didn’t look up; he needed to concentrate and get out. The heat from Kirk’s thigh seemed to have doubled, or was it him?

Between stitches two and three, McCoy’s eyes wandered to the hem of the Captain’s shirt where it pooled across Kirk’s groin, the crease of his underpants breaking the line, cream against white, jersey against Egyptian cotton. Fine hairs disappeared under the fabric and for just one second, a notion appeared in McCoy’s mind, as stark as the spotlight in his eyes when he ran into the ring. What if he were to slide his thumb under the jersey, feel Kirk’s skin give under the pads of his fingers, trace the dip where thigh joined groin? He had to look away but, _dammit_ , he did that all wrong, looked _up_ so Kirk caught his gaze like a predator, holding it there, so he couldn’t breathe or move. McCoy parted his lips, the needle hovered in his hands,

“I-“he said, “--need to finish up or you’ll scar.”

Finally done, he reached towards his bag, dropped the scissors, and the movement made him inadvertently slide the heel of his other hand back and up. It breached the warm space under Kirk’s shirt, touching jersey where a very hard cock strained through the fabric. McCoy froze unsure whether he wanted to retreat or push on.

They breathed in time, three maybe four breaths, then Kirk passed his hand over McCoy’s, skimming it on route. He adjusted his cock with an unselfconscious tug and brought his hand back up to the arm rest. McCoy pulled away and finished packing up his instruments, his head full of surprise and desire and notions.

“I don’t like clowns,” Kirk said suddenly. “My mom’s second husband was a clown.”

“We don’t bite,” McCoy said, snapping the clasp on his bag.

“But you do growl.” A cocky smile, which vied for brightness with the candle at their sides, stretched across Kirk’s strong features.

Damn, McCoy wasn’t quick enough to stop himself, so he smiled right back. The rare use of his happy muscles had set off a trickle of warmth that burrowed deep inside him. Soon as he’d got his mouth under control and managed to fake a scowl, he stood up. Hat in hand, he ran his thumb along the rim. Too late, Kirk had caught him out.

“Thought hobo clowns were supposed to be sad,“ Kirk said from his armchair, his breeches still shamelessly undone.

McCoy shook his head. “How the devil did an upstart like you make ringmaster?”

“Charisma, Bones, charisma.”

Right. McCoy took out his flask again, sipped but didn’t swallow and brought his mouth close to his Kirk’s thigh, to his handiwork. He allowed his lips to part and watched in satisfaction as Kirk bucked at the sharp sting of alcohol.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

“Germs,” McCoy explained, his turn to grin, and how he loved the stretch of his jaw, the way his cheekbones moved, his eyes crinkled. Shit, how long had it been? He’d have to lay the greasepaint on tonight to conjure up that melancholic face.

He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a light bandage and some gauze and, with supreme concentration, passed it under Kirk’s thigh, inhaling his scent as unobtrusively as he could muster. He almost wished he’d had Sulu’s tongue so he could pick up every nuance.

“You can get dressed now,” he said.

Kirk licked his lips, and pulled his breeches up, taking way to long to tuck that shirt in as if the little bastard was testing him the way he made a bit of a show of smoothing the fabric in place, doing those buttons up. Well, two could play this game, McCoy could watch as brazenly as Kirk could pose .

“I need to get dressed, not long till the show,” Kirk said.

Kirk picked his vest up off the back of the chair, the blue and gold brocade rich in the candlelight. McCoy felt a pang that he had no reason to stay. His eyes lingered on Kirk’s broad neck as he buttoned up and fixed his collar. He pulled a pocket watch out of the vest and wound it. “Belonged to my father, George Kirk,” he said, eyes lowered when he tucked it safely away. Then, he said:

“Help me with my tie?”

McCoy dropped his bag again, and was scuffed toe to polished boot with Kirk, aware how they were polar opposites: Kirk a bright star, and he a faded one, a homeless bum. His hands worked the knots, made the bow just right, his head bowed, Kirk’s warm breath whispering at his forehead, one hand on McCoy’s bicep.

“There,” McCoy said, his hands falling to Kirk’s shoulders and as if he’d read the want in his eyes. Kirk’s face filled his field of vision. McCoy’s cock lurched; Kirk’s lips were full, ready, like fruit waiting to fall and, holy _fuck_ , suddenly pressed against his, a hand pulling at the back of his head. His hat tipped and almost fell when Kirk’s tongue slipped across his, forcing a moan out of him and before he could even breathe, the incredible warmth was gone again, “Thanks, Bones,” Kirk murmured, mouth slack, dark eyebrows furrowing. “You can go now.”

It was dark outside. Somehow, McCoy’s legs carried him back to his trailer. The last thing he saw through the open doorway was the Captain slipping his red coat over broad shoulders, picking up his top hat, tapping the crown and picking up his cane and whip.

“I might come see you tomorrow, Bones,” Kirk had said, his voice thicker than molasses. “You can show me how you put that make-up on. I could even give you a hand.”

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Leonard McCoy was looking forward to tomorrow.

 

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	2. The Ringmaster part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intriguing snippet: _After the last performance of the run, Kirk waited outside the tent, thinking about what he should do. No one could see him in the shadows. Just fifty steps to McCoy’s trailer. That’s all it would take._

**The Ringmaster – part 2**

Forty-five minutes after McCoy left his trailer, Kirk strode through the backyard of the main arena. Wooden slop shoes lay in a heap to one side, while the tumblers waited to break into the ring. A few nodded, some smiled and one or two looked at their feet when Kirk swaggered past.

He hovered on the edge of the hippodrome, waiting for the drum rolls, his heart beating faster; he knew McCoy would be performing his walk-around act somewhere in the seats, and he took a moment to scan them before stepping into the floodlights.

“Ladies and gen-tle- _men!”_ he began, hat in one hand, cane in the other, automatic pilot, leaving him free to search the silhouetted figures and look for movement. Despite the blinding lights, earsplitting music from the small orchestra and the stench of horse-shit and sweat, popcorn and greasepaint, his senses cut through it all. But he didn’t see McCoy and he was annoyed that he’d even noticed the doctor’s absence.

After the show, Kirk was uncharacteristically in need of space. He returned to his trailer and drank brandy while staring at his candle flickering and huffing on the table. His thigh, where Missy had gouged and McCoy had tended it, felt tight and sore. His cock burned and it was as if the lioness had scored _there,_ from tip to base, as if McCoy had spilled whiskey directly onto his hard dick, soothing and smarting all at once. Jerking off left him feeling angry, dissatisfied.

He took an age to get to sleep, his legs kicking all night, his skin felt like he’d been dragged across gravel by one of the mares.

His body boneless, his limbs like those of a corpse, Kirk watched from his bed as his mind dodged and parried, weighed and measured and, he liked none of the conclusions it came to.

+++

Kirk hadn’t cast eyes on McCoy for fourteen long hours. He’d given up trying to sleep, jerked off again, stared at the ceiling, tried to read, felt nothing but exhausted yet shot through with a flame of something he couldn’t douse.

Finally, the smell of bacon from the cook shack lifted him from the bed. This wasn’t like him, he thought, as he splashed ice cold water onto his face. The best thing was to scratch this itch so he could get on with his previously uncomplicated and fulfilling life.

He looked about his trailer, at the spot where McCoy had knelt to stitch him up, at the chair he’d sat in while the thread tugged at Kirk’s skin and his cock throbbed and ached under his shirt-tail, so close…fuck it- there was something intensely annoying about the doctor: a combination of petulance and compassion that confused the fuck out of him.

Kirk couldn’t shove the image of McCoy’s face from his mind, that moment just after Kirk had kissed him; those furious eyes yet soft, plum-colored lips. Everything about McCoy, as if he were offering and daring at the same time. And, Kirk couldn’t believe it – there was _another_ unasked for twinge in his groin. This was the first time in Kirk’s twenty-six years that he’d found his virility so damned annoying.

The cry of, “Flag’s up!” followed by the bang of the gong, reminded him how hungry he was.

He caught himself scanning the lot again and put his irritation down to lack of sleep. And food – he hadn’t eaten since lunchtime the previous day.

Kirk headed for the cook shack, still dressed in his buckskin pants, boots and white shirt from the night before, suspenders hanging over his hips, hair fastened behind. It was another Indian summer and he welcomed the sun on his pale skin; it might make him look less of a kid. He’d shave after breakfast, once Rand hauled her ass out of bed and heated up some water for him. In fact, he might take a bath - it had been over a week.

“Morning, Captain!” Cupcake, the cook, waved his fish slice at him, “What’ll it be? We got pancakes, side of eggs, bacon, biscuits-“

Kirk licked his lips. He took in Cupcake’s belly, straining behind his apron.

“Maybe just eggs.”

“Scrambled?”

“Sure.”

He turned his back on Cupcake while he waited. The tent was empty. Circus folk slept late – shit, he normally did but he needed to get out of his trailer, needed to stop jerking off before he snapped his cock off. And just when he was enjoying a rare moment of not needing to cross his legs, there McCoy was. Fuck.

McCoy loped through the tent flaps, unshaven, still wearing that dumb coat. Didn’t he have any civvies and why the fuck didn’t he lace up his boots? Kirk felt his palms sweat but he wasn’t a poker genius for nothing, so he managed to break his best smile, the kind women in sequined leotards couldn’t resist. Well, Kirk had already worked out that McCoy was a contrary son-of-a-bitch, but he was nevertheless surprised that his smooth as silk smile had the opposite effect intended and sent McCoy one hundred and eighty degrees about, in the _opposite_ direction, right back out of the tent. At least McCoy had the decency to pretend he’d forgotten something, the way he clutched at his pockets, muttering, “Dammit!” before he disappeared. At that moment, Kirk remembered what the big top looked like when they’d removed the king pole and felt about as crumpled.

“There you go!” Cupcake’s voice snapped him from his thoughts. The cook handed him two plates, one laden with pancakes smothered in syrup, another with egg and bacon. Kirk realized he was too lax with his crew, needed to do something about this insubordination. “I’ll bring you coffee,” Cupcake said, seemingly oblivious to Kirk’s muttered complaints.

Kirk nodded his thanks and considered taking his food back to his trailer, when Spock appeared at his elbow.

“May I join you, Jim?”

“Sure.” He looked at the tables, all free but one was out of sight of the tent flaps so, if McCoy’s stomach brought him back, he wouldn’t spot Jim straight away. Irritation flared in his cock again.

Spock brought his cup of warm milk and plate of fruit over and settled gracefully in the fold up-chair opposite Jim.

“Chekov informs me Missy is suffering some discomfort, Jim.”

“That crazy bitch. What’s the problem?” Jim said, as he tucked into the food. Much to his delight, the eggs were amazing, light, creamy and comforting.

“Chekov was unable to ascertain the precise cause but reports Mr. Scott’s suspicion is that it may be her teeth.”

Jim sat back, glugged the last of his coffee and waved to Cupcake for a refill. “Why her teeth?”

“She is shaking her head inordinately. It would seem logical her mouth or ears are causing her pain.”

Kirk surveyed Spock’s impassive face. He really did have a strange manner about him with his non-descript, flat accent and dark, possibly oriental skin; it all added to the mystique of his mind-reading act. No one knew for sure where Spock was from and no one dared ask. It amused Kirk that someone who made his living supposedly plundering people’s true secrets and desires should be so taciturn.

“Makes sense,” Jim said finally. He took a breath, hated that it might be because he was about to suggest, “I’ll go visit McCoy. Guy seems pretty good with animals-“

“May I suggest you remunerate him?”

“Yeah, I’ll do that. I’ll make sure he gets what’s coming to him.” Kirk tried to suppress a grin but Spock had spotted it.

“Jim?”

Spock touched Kirk’s hand briefly and Kirk shook him off with a smile. Was it a question? There was no hint of curiosity in Spock’s baritone. He leaned back in his chair and Spock raised an eyebrow. To an observer, their communication, honed after many years of friendship and trust, would have been almost invisible, it was so subtle.

Kirk stayed him with a raised hand.

“Fuck off out of my head, Spock.” His grin widened. “Save it for the gallery.”

“I had no intention-“ a slight widening of Spock’s eyes revealed what Jim had come to know as ‘amused Spock’.

“Good.” Two cups of coffee and Kirk was about as shored up as he could be. Looked like the bastard hobo wasn’t coming back for food after all. That was one skittish character if even his stomach wasn’t going to get him out of the open.

“Time to take that mountain to Mohammed,” he told Spock and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

“I do not follow-“

“No, you wouldn’t.” Kirk punched Spock on the arm, impressed by how his friend didn’t react to the invasion of his personal space in the slightest. “Oh, and, Spock,” he called over his shoulder, “if you see Rand, tell her to head on over with some hot water, huh? I’m gonna take a bath!”

+++

The first autumn leaves rustled at Kirk’s ankles while he waited for McCoy to open the trailer door. He felt a little exposed; the circus crew either came to him or, if it was business, to the Red Wagon. He clenched and unclenched his fist and tried not to look like he was straining to hear any sounds behind the scuffed door.

Another half a minute, and he decided he wasn’t waiting another second, _damn_ him. And then, of course, McCoy’s stubble-dashed features scowled at Jim through the cracked door.

 _“What?”_

“And good morning to you too, doctor.”

“I’m a clown, not a doctor, dammit.” Jim wasn’t prepared for the effect that standing so close to McCoy would have on him. It was as if a warm wind had licked at his face, made him stand upright, take notice. McCoy’s hair was a little wild, like he’d recently gotten up and run his fingers through it. He was in his shirtsleeves and hadn’t attached the collar so the shirt fell open at his neck, revealing a few hairs curling at the dip above his collar bone.

“And why are you in such a grouchy mood on a fine day like this?”

Kirk indicated the brilliant sky and tepid sun, stepping back from the petulant son-of-a-bitch so as not to crowd him.

“You should see me when it rains.”

Jim barked out a laugh and noted, with an ache in his chest, that McCoy was smiling straight back at him. Plump, purple lips pulled back for a fleeting flash of teeth. Then back to scowl-face. Blink and you’d miss it. But the way his eyes lit up, even for that split second, made Kirk wonder what could make him look like that again.

He suddenly remembered why he was there. Just as his mind decided to throw up a less useful memory of how McCoy had tasted the night before, dark and rich and-

“I need you to take a look at Missy. Spock reckons she’s got something up with her teeth,” he said, clearing his throat.

McCoy raised an eyebrow,”I wasn’t planning on losing any fingers just yet,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

“You’ll have to knock her out. ‘sides, Scotty will be there and he’s got her round his little finger,” Kirk grinned, “long as he keeps her belly full.”

McCoy appeared to ponder him for a moment, the way he looked Kirk up and down; Kirk shifted one foot to the other, suddenly feeling a little warm. “So she was hungry the day she took a swipe at _you?”_ McCoy said.

His eyes went wide and…Kirk looked away, gestured to the lions’ tent. “Not exactly-” Kirk looped his thumb into his pants’ pocket and noticed how McCoy’s eyes darted towards the movement then flickered back to Kirk’s face. “She doesn’t like to share.”

“I get that,” McCoy’s voice was gruff, and he looked away. “I’ll fetch my bag. We’ll need a prime cut of meat so I can spike it with chloroform.”

Kirk nodded. He backed away form the door and waited while McCoy picked up what he needed, enjoying and hating the tightening in his groin and the little pulse of heat in his balls when McCoy emerged again, squinting in the sunlight, bag in hand.

Kirk couldn’t make heads or tails of the feeling of pride as they walked alongside each other the short distance to the cat wagons. He’d forgotten how tall McCoy was, how they were shoulder to shoulder. He made a point of increasing the distance between them; yet, seemingly without any exertion on his part, McCoy fell into step with him again.

Dry-mouthed and distracted as hell, Kirk realized he’d have to slip back into command persona. While McCoy couldn’t smell his arousal, he knew that Missy read his moods with ease and they wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near her until she’d reached a semblance of calm.

“Scotty!” Kirk bellowed as they approached the cat wagons, “get your ass out here.”

The heady stench from the cats was overpowering and Kirk noticed how McCoy’s hand went up to his face for a moment. “It’s pretty high in the heat,” he observed. “The slangers get a lot of headaches. And the horse crew.”

McCoy nodded and passed under the canopy which shielded the cats from the sun. Kirk followed, enjoying the opportunity to look at the hobo’s dusty coat and long legs without giving himself away.

Missy pressed herself up against the cage as soon as she saw him, dipping her head, rubbing her lips against the bars, fixing Kirk with that look where he wasn’t quite sure whether she wanted to eat him or not. He kind of liked it.

+++

“Cap’n!” It was Scotty. “Aye, and the Doctor. You come tae feed the cat, eh?”

Scotty caught Kirk’s eye and they both laughed, the sound unsettling the cats who set to deep, rumbling growls.

Kirk saw McCoy roll his eyes, “I’m not a doctor, I’m-“

“Yer what we call a ‘forty-miler’,” Scotty said, winking at Kirk. “Isn’t that right, Cap’n?”

“It’s just an old bit of circus slang,” Kirk said, turning away from McCoy and scanning the cages. “Means you’re new to circus life-“

“An’ maybe a bit wet behind yer ears!” Scotty chuckled. He wore a white wife-beater and wool britches and his arms were covered in tattoos.

“Why forty miles?” McCoy said.

“Mebbe you’ve never been further than forty miles from home, lad?”

“I’m older than you, _lad,_ and I’ll have you know.” McCoy trailed off, as if he’d realized he was being teased. Kirk decided he liked that dark scowl a whole lot and he found himself wondering what that handsome face would look like when all the barriers had dropped.

“Get a steak so we can dose her,” Kirk said.

+++

McCoy sat on his steps smoking a cigar, watching as Rand and Chekov filled the tin bath they’d set up outside the Captain’s trailer. He had nothing better to do; it was hours until the last show of the run and he’d packed up most of his stuff already. He could do with a bath himself but then, he didn’t have anyone who’d run around for him like Kirk did. So, like everyone else on the lot, he made do with a washbowl and cloth. The only thing McCoy was looking forward to about tomorrow was a soak at the bathhouse in town, before he caught the coach the next afternoon.

Kirk emerged from the trailer in his underwear and undershirt, squinting in the sun. McCoy wondered at how his eyes seemed to sparkle in the autumn light. There was no reason for him to be wearing his top hat but Kirk had it on nevertheless and this irritated McCoy more than made sense. He watched through a cloud of smoke as Kirk undressed, how he disappeared from sight for a moment while he dipped down behind the chest-high screen to remove his underwear. When he stood up he looked McCoy’s way and held his gaze for a moment, licked his lips and stepped into the bath. Rand had her back to him all the while and McCoy could see her busying herself with the shaving equipment.

McCoy had given up on working out Kirk’s relationship with everyone. He knew the circus was owned by some guy called Pike who’d suffered a fall from the wires and cut his career short. He lived in San Francisco. Then there was Chekov, he thought -- watching, Rand shift to the other side of the bath as she leaned forward -- Chekov was young, did all the organizational work, planned the tour, the logistics, dealt with the crew – only a kid, but had his whole life ahead of him. McCoy looked down at his calloused hands and felt an ache in the pit of his belly. He needed a drink, so he stood up and sauntered over to the screen. Kirk lay back, his head tipped , sun-streaked hair flowing behind him, and his neck exposed, while Rand steered the razor around his Adam’s apple. She caught his eye and McCoy nodded and pulled back. Kirk immediately opened his eyes,

“Bones!” he said, and closed them again.

“I’m gonna check on Missy,” McCoy murmured, eyes fixed on the soapy neck, the dip at his collar-bone. He was sure Kirk always took his baths like this, always had Rand shave him with the cut throat razor, always…the bastard.

“Sure, you do that.”

Somehow, despite being half hard, McCoy managed to walk to the cat tent without a limp. He waited outside until he was calm so as not to wind her up. She’d woken up and was grumbling, no doubt missing her tooth. Scotty seemed happy enough

And he owed it to Kirk to fill him in on her progress, not least because he’d slipped him a few bucks, and he wasn’t going to wait until the guy had finished his bath because it might look like he gave a damn that Kirk was naked and-

“Missy’s doing fine,” he said, peering down at Kirk’s pale knees where they stuck out of the water.

Kirk smirked. McCoy felt a wave of anger prickling at his neck and shoulders. Rand looked at him and smiled.

“She’ll be your friend for life now, McCoy. Seeing as you fixed her,” she said.

“She doesn’t know he fixed her, Janice. She’s still got more teeth than brains,” Kirk grinned. Beautiful blue eyes, glinting like he understood animals, like he understood what everyone was thinking.

“How’s your leg?” McCoy said, “You shouldn’t get it wet.”

“I’ll be fine. I heal quick, always have.” Kirk sneezed suddenly and then grinned at McCoy, rubbing the tip of his nose with the back of his hand. “Only time I don’t sneeze is in the winter.”

“Yeah?” McCoy had his hands in his pockets, wondering how he’d hide the fact that the sight of that naked chest, the thought of what was under the water was making him madder by the minute.

Rand left them, taking the shaving kit back to the trailer and emerging with an enormous, white towel. She handed it to McCoy, who rolled his eyes then watched her waltz off towards the cook shack, her long skirt swaying over her boots.

“Fine looking woman,” he felt compelled to say, frowning at Kirk.

“That she is,” he agreed, removing his hat and holding it out for McCoy who took it and watched in horror as Kirk ducked under the water, so his legs slid down the bath, and his shoulder length hair disappeared for a few seconds. The water was full of salt, and was a little cloudy but he could see Kirk’s cock as the bastard wriggled around and washed his hair. He felt his throat constrict and looked away just as Kirk emerged again with a whoosh, spitting out water at him.

“Hey!”

Kirk laughed as McCoy wiped his eyes and cheeks. “Wanna get in? Shame to waste a hot bath.”

“Asshole,” McCoy said, fighting to stem a smile.

Kirk’s pale skin gleamed in the low sun and McCoy watched his biceps flex when his hands went up to his hair to squeeze the water out. He blinked at McCoy and McCoy blinked right back.

“Hand me that towel.”

McCoy didn’t quite like that tone, the way there seemed to be an _assumption_ that people would just do what Kirk asked.

But he handed him the towel and before he had time to move out of range, Kirk stood up with a rush of water falling away from his body. It must have been mild shock, because McCoy just stared as Kirk unfurled the towel, wrapped it round his waist, and stepped out of the bath onto the mat Rand had thrown down for him. The screen would have hidden him from the view of any passers by but from McCoy’s perspective, he saw every magnificent inch or Kirk’s pale, muscled body.

“Thanks,” Kirk said, leaning towards him so his eyes seemed to be the only thing in McCoy’s universe. His breath smelled sweet and milky like the coffee he must have downed at breakfast. A breakfast McCoy had missed.

He watched, frozen to the spot, as Kirk turned and climbed the step to his trailer, leaving wet footprints in his wake, his ass cheeks clearly outlined against the thin fabric of the towel.

+++

After the last performance of the run, Kirk waited outside the tent, thinking about what he should do. No one could see him in the shadows. Just fifty steps to McCoy’s trailer. That’s all it would take. His feet felt heavy. It was all out, all over and they’d begun packing up the seats – the poles and Top would be packed away in the morning. He listened to Chekov giving orders to the crew. Kirk never slept the night before they moved on. He should go search out Spock for a game of cards or chess. And an image flashed in his mind of McCoy in full costume, what he would look like bent over outside the tent, touching his toes while Kirk thrust into him, an image that had been haunting Kirk since the night before, since--

+++

Kirk kicked open the door to McCoy’s trailer. He didn’t appear to be surprised to see him. McCoy sat on a stool in front of the mirror with his back to the door - a flickering candle the only light. He’d loosened his suspenders and un-tucked his shirt. His coat lay on the floor. Kirk could make out his dark eyes in the mirror and his day old stubble. The remnants of white face make-up caught what little light there was as he rubbed a cloth against the shadows under his eyes, that he could only partially remove with cold cream.

“Close the door, it’s cold,” he said simply, his voice dark and rich like bitter chocolate.


	3. part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intriguing snippet: _How could he tell him the dreams were all about him, all about McCoy bent over for him, folded for _him_ , pliant and willing. Now, when he looked at him, Jim realized how ridiculous this was, the thought of this man bending physically, or mentally for that matter, for anyone was almost comical. _

**The ringmaster, part 3**

Jim ducked his head and stepped through the narrow doorway. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat and, in what he hoped was a nonchalant gesture, he removed his hat and tossed it towards the bed. His eyes never left the man seated at the table.

“It’s bad luck to put hats on beds,“ McCoy said without turning to face him.

“You don’t believe that, do you? As a man of science?” Jim asked. He didn’t approach McCoy. Jim waited to see whether he’d turn round or acknowledge that maybe his presence in this trailer, at this hour, was something to comment on.

Long moments crawled by as Jim took in the dark, neat surroundings. He spotted a carpetbag by the foot of the bed, McCoy’s boots by the door, a photograph of a young girl by the pot of cold cream on the table. Jim suddenly appreciated what it must be like for Missy and the rest of the cats, trapped behind bars: he and McCoy, tall and broad shouldered, in this too small, airless space, confined and constricted. He unbuttoned his jacket.

“I don’t know what kind of man I am, “McCoy finally said, “so you can’t be any damn expert.” His voice was even but Jim had already learned to detect the underlying whiff of irritation, like garlic in soup. He watched McCoy’s long, tan fingers while he cleaned his face of clown make-up.

Outside, the sounds of the rigs being dismantled, of impromptu final night parties and the rumbles from excitable cats became muffled and as he honed on closer sounds: the creak of his boots, McCoy clearing his throat, the faint tick of the clock by the bed, his world tunneled to this room, this man.

“I’m not sleeping,” Jim said. The words seemed incongruous, foolish even, but they expressed everything of how discombobulated he’d felt for the past twenty-four hours.

McCoy appeared to mull them over. He put down his facecloth.

“Are you telling me this as your doctor?” he said, gazing straight at Jim’s reflection.

“I’m simply saying I can’t sleep.” Yet, he felt alive, awake--

“Food repeating on you?”

“No,” Jim said with a chuckle. He took a step closer so he loomed over the seated figure. He saw McCoy straighten his back then shrug his shoulders.

“You need to drink more.”

Jim wanted to laugh at that.

“I drink plenty,” he said. He clenched his hands, fought the impulse to grab McCoy’s shoulders, force him to turn round and look at him, pull him to his feet, _stop_ this stupid, fucking conversation. Stop the talking.

“Somethin’s on your mind – you don’t have to be a doctor to work that one out.”

“Yes.” He could smell McCoy, his sweat from the close confines of the audience, the greasepaint, the acrid sweet smell of cigars clinging to the wool of his pants. “And when I do sleep,” Kirk said, “I have these dreams.”

How could he tell him the dreams were all about him, all about McCoy bent over for him, folded for _him_ , pliant and willing. Now, when he looked at him, Jim realized how ridiculous this was, the thought of this man bending physically, or mentally for that matter, for anyone was almost comical.

 _McCoy took another dollop of cream and slathered the area under his eyes. Jim watched in the mirror as he took a cloth and wiped, removing the shadows. He caught Jim’s eye in the mirror and pushed back from the table, the stool legs scraping on the floor. There was a long silence as McCoy stood with his back to him and seemed to consider what to do next._

 _“I’m not a psychiatrist,” McCoy said. He went to the washstand and poured a basin full of water, undid his shirt and, with a faint rasp of linen on skin, tossed it onto the bed. His back gleamed in the low light like amber, his muscles rippled as he moved. Jim got a grip on himself, waited to be asked, waited for a sign._

 _“And, so you say, you’re also _not_ a doctor.”_

McCoy bent over and blew into palmfuls of water, rinsing the cream off his face. He faced Jim and ran a towel over his forehead and cheeks, ears and neck. He looked like a Dutch painting, beautiful in his everyday movements, and Jim marveled at how erotic simple gestures could be.

“I killed my father,” McCoy said, his voice flat and he stared directly at Jim, his eyes impenetrable and his lips parted. “No, I’m not a doctor anymore.”

Somehow, Jim sensed it hadn’t been a contest; whatever had happened, both father and son had lost. And now, McCoy was here, doing the walkabout act, no longer healing people, turning his hand to whatever came his way. Jim’s thigh twitched at the memory of those long fingers caressing him, the intent look on his face as he stitched him up. Jim’s lips seemed to stick together and he glanced at the glass of deep brown liquid on the table. “And I’m way more than forty miles from home,” McCoy finished. Yeah, well, the accent was enough proof of that.

Jim tapped the carpetbag at the foot of the bed with his whip which hadn’t left his hand since he’d walked out of the ring.

“Are you going to stay?” Jim asked, his voice as neutral as he could make it. “Chekov will want to know about the trailer.“

His answer was a shrug.

Avid eyes raked McCoy’s lean belly, the trail of hair mesmerizing. Jim felt his half-hard cock jump when, without thinking about it, he moved those extra few inches so he was close enough to look right into black, almond shaped eyes. He wondered what it would feel like to place the tip of his tongue on the mole on McCoy’s right cheek, and realized he’d licked his lips. McCoy’s eyes darted towards the slight movement and his own hands dropped to his sides, tapping the whip absently against the top of his boot. He saw McCoy part his lips, then press them together again. Jim wasn’t sure, but he could swear he’d swayed slightly in Jim’s direction.

“I’m not the kind of guy who can run on little sleep,” Jim said, pointing his whip at McCoy. He shrugged his jacket off and dropped it to the floor. “I need to be sharp, on top of things.”

The response was an arched eyebrow and a hissed, “So what are you doing here?” There was a hint of anger in his voice. “The only sleep I’ve got is in a bottle.”

He was so close; Jim could smell the tobacco and whiskey on his breath, the sweet smell of pan stick.

The tragic sound of Chekov’s violin from way over in the half-undressed hippodrome broke through the pounding in his head, and brought the outside world in with it, and Jim felt as if he were balanced on a sand castle with water rushing round their ankles . . . .

Not yet.

“You missed a bit,“ he said, lifting a finger under McCoy’s eye to a fleck of dark make-up, and dragging it down and outwards. The response to Jim’s touch was a near silent gasp. McCoy didn’t flinch, rather he seemed to grow taller, brighter, like he’d been lit with a match.

“I’m not one of your pets,” McCoy growled, grabbing Jim’s wrist before he could pull away. His face loomed closer so it was all Jim could do not to take those lips, “Who you can touch whenever the fancy takes you. And--” McCoy’s irritation appeared to dissolve and Jim held his breath when he recognized the same expression of calm focus Bones wore while he’d tended Jim’s wound --“I don’t like takin’ orders, not like the rest of your crew.” What McCoy did next made Jim’s knees give a little: he opened out Jim’s hand and, with cool, confident fingers, never once breaking eye-contact, guided Jim’s fingers into his mouth, all hot breath and teeth, dragging at the knuckles. Jim’s stomach flipped when he realized this was the moment he had to seize yet; he couldn’t resist spinning out the delicious agony and creating one last moment of tension.

“Are you sure?” Jim managed to say, his voice a whisper. “So, if I said ‘kiss me again’, would you tell me to go fuck myself?” He dragged the handle of his whip down McCoy’s chest and McCoy’s eyes seemed to flare with heat. He tilted Jim to him, digging blunt nails into his wrist, his expression carnivorous.

Reclaiming his hand, Jim slipped it round the back of McCoy’s neck and pulled those infuriating lips in for a ravenous kiss. But it became more of a punch, the heat of McCoy’s invading tongue throwing him back away. Jim felt a rush of lust when McCoy grabbed at his long hair, dragging him back to him, checking him like he was a horse or something.

“Kiss _me_ , you arrogant dick,“ McCoy snarled, fingers fumbling in Jim’s hair, then at his shoulders. Naked skin leaned on starched cotton and velvet while Jim unfastened the ringmaster costume, popping open hooks and buttons with difficulty in the crush against McCoy’s body. He could only moan into McCoy’s mouth and wriggle thumbs into the back of the worn pants, spreading his palms to squeeze his ass and pull him closer while their tongues battled for who should fuck whose mouth.

McCoy unhooked Jim’s suspenders from his shoulders, releasing his teeth from Jim’s bruised lips when he tried to speak.

“ _I_ don’t take orders, you miserable --” Jim managed, but McCoy’s mouth cut him off, sucking at Jim’s tongue. A hard tug on his scalp made Jim’s cock throb, desperate to escape from where it was bound by his britches. His fingers raked McCoy’s arms, as he struggled to keep balance. McCoy ate his tongue and lips, his stubble grating Jim’s smooth shaven face, grunts, moans the only sound.

“You know,” McCoy growled when he drew breath, “I like women, but I fucking love _this_.“ And their lips were clamped together again.

“Fuck,” Jim protested, arching away so he could untangle the doctor’s hands from his hair and waistband. He shoved the doctor hard so he fell across the unmade bed with a grunt.

McCoy looked dark and furious, his long, lean body splayed out, up on his elbows. His hair was disheveled, and the tendons in his neck pulled taught. Wolfish eyes glaring a heady mix of invitation and threat.

“Is that an order?” he drawled, licking his lips, arching that infernal eyebrow again.

Jim didn’t answer. McCoy shifted a little while his eyes followed Jim’s movements. Jim unbuttoned his fly, un-tucked his shirt, ignoring the drag of fabric across an impossibly hard cock. He unfastened silver cufflinks, and placed them on the bedside table. In doing so, he leaned close to McCoy and felt the heat coming off him as hot as sunshine. McCoy’s eyes bored into the side of his face, daring him.

It reminded Jim of Missy’s hungry glares through the cage. There were none of the usual things that egged him on, no softness or curves; Bones was all hard lines, muscle and strength, even McCoy’s mouth, for all its softness, had a flint edge to it.

“You’re. . .” Jim began, his normally sharp thoughts fumbling through a fog of lust. Yet he knew that before he could take that final step, he needed _something_ more. And it was as if McCoy had sensed that split second of wavering. He lifted his hips off the bed, shucked threadbare woolen pants, and then underwear, so they lay bunched around his ankles making him look more naked and vulnerable than if he’d completely removed them. His dark cock lay almost flat against his belly and bobbed to the side as he settled down against the patchwork coverlet. There was now only one thing Jim could possibly do and that was take what was being offered to him. He kneeled on the bed, swept away his discarded hat, and yanked McCoy’s pants away with one move, leaving him naked save for his socks.

“Jesus, “he said, his voice thick with unfamiliar emotions, “you’re so fucking. . . “ Jim knew what he wanted to say, but this was a man, not a woman, not a horse or a--- Fuck, why was he wasting time even thinking? Jim detected a faint tremor in McCoy’s legs as he leaned in and placed firm hands at his ankles.

“What?” McCoy demanded, “What do you _want_ , Kirk?” His chest rose and fell in time with his own.

“I won’t be able to sleep unless I –“ and Jim finished his thought by hiking McCoy’s legs up and dragged him down the bed closer, till they rested over his shoulders and he was open for him.

Jim turned to McCoy’s foot balanced near his throat, noting the darned heel of the sock, the indent of his calves, the dark hairs rubbed away at the back of his knees. Jim tugged at the sock and tossed it into the darkness; he pressed his lips against McCoy’s instep and slowly licked a trail to the back of his knees, smirking with satisfaction at the hiss this drew from him. And, in case he’d thought he was the one in control here, Jim felt a tug at his neck when McCoy used his other foot to hook him closer. Jim fell forwards and McCoy’s leg dropped to grip at his hips; long fingers dug into Jim’s temples to pull him in for a violent kiss.

Jim gasped at the expression of want on McCoy’s face, how his tongue swiped across swollen lips. He dropped his tongue to the nape of McCoy’s neck and licked the salt and the musk from him, raising a heavy arm so he could inhale from the hair kissing and sucking the soft skin.

Hypnotized by the hard planes, the angular lines, Jim ducked his head to worry at one of McCoy’s nipple, moaning while McCoy dug his nails into his buttocks through the cloth of his britches and retaliated with a pinch which had the doctor arching off the bed.

“You don’t fuckin’ own me,“ McCoy said darkly.

“I know,” he whispered into the hairs on McCoy’s chest, into the pink marks he’d made with his teeth. He grated his chin down to the dip of McCoy’s hard stomach muscles, towards the hairs he’d been looking at so hungrily a short while ago, while his hands found purchase on the small of McCoy’s back.

“Touch it!” McCoy insisted, his fingers twisting in Jim’s hair, to pull his mouth closer to his erect cock.

“Or what?” Jim looked up at McCoy, his face a mixture of wanton and belligerent. His teeth were clenched tight. Jim saw that his soft hazel eyes were blown black with passion; his breathing came in short, hot gasps, and he felt McCoy’s hips canting minutely under him.

Jim wanted to comply. He was dimly aware that he hadn’t had a moment to free his cock, yet it didn’t seem to matter. All he wanted was to follow his primal instinct to touch, feel, lick, taste, get closer-- “Or else, _what_?” he repeated, dragging his nails down McCoy’s belly towards the curled hairs below but still refusing to touch him there.

“ _Fuck_ …I don’t know…I need…”

Jim wanted to say he _knew_ , but his mouth was full of hard, velvet flesh, his feet off the end of the bed, swimming in the moans above him, the pain in his scalp where McCoy tugged at his hair driving him mad so he wanted to suffocate in McCoy’s musky scent, so different from a woman’s and so familiar; he realized the bass notes would be like his own and this sent such a shot of adrenaline through him forcing him to exercise supreme control to stop himself biting down.

His eyes met McCoy’s. The man was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Jim slid both hands up his warm, heaving chest to his neck and face, bending towards him, so he could savor the feeling of desire he knew he’d finally fulfill; it was like holding a mouthful of rich wine before he swallowed. But McCoy wasn’t as patient. It didn’t seem like he was going to let go of Jim’s hair and now he wrapped it round both his wrists and pulled him in for a hot, wet, messy kiss. Jim sucked on McCoy’s tongue and pushed him back down against the large pillows,

“You need to let go of my hair. “ He grinned and McCoy gifted him a half-smile and did just that, placing his hands on Jim’s shoulders. But then he shoved him down the bed so that he was level with that gorgeous, long cock again. Licking his lips, he pulled at the foreskin with his teeth, relishing the twitches and shudders caused by each little nip or caress of his tongue.

McCoy had wrapped his legs around Jim’s neck, a little too tight, and sweat began to pool under his hair, so he used his shoulders to lever McCoy’s legs until he was almost doubled over and utterly exposed. Now Jim could do something he’d never even imagined he’d want to before - he reveled in how McCoy choked and twisted beneath him in response to long, lazy licks, past his perineum, and how he breathed out, “Jim… _fuck_..”

He’d not called Jim that before.

“You’re a bossy one, that’s for sure,” Jim managed to chuckle before an urgent hand had him by the scruff of the neck, back into position and he was aware, from the rocking of the bed, that McCoy was stroking himself in time with Jim’s tongue-fucking.

“Don’t…fucking…stop. _Don’t_!”

Like he was about to. Without breaking his rhythm, his mouth slipping and sliding as his tongue breached McCoy over and over, Jim reached for McCoy’s cock, yanking roughly on it in time with his invading tongue.

“Come on…” he murmured, taking a moment to look up and enjoy the sight of this feast laid out before him. “Let go. Fucking _give_ – come _on_ , Bones!” He stabbed his tongue in hard, ground his chin against skin, gently kneading McCoy’s balls.

He almost came in his pants when he heard a garbled, “Dammit!” McCoy released Jim’s hair and grappled the coverlet. He came up off the bed and stilled as Jim felt him spasm for what seemed like an age around his tongue and push into his tight grip. Jim stopped licking, he wanted to see, yet he didn’t stop stroking, his face and hand wet and slippery, loving the look on McCoy’s face as it changed from ecstatic to pained when he suffered one pull too many…

Eventually he croaked, “Jesus, Jim. Stop! _Stop_!”

Heart racing, Jim sat up and wiped his jaw, grinning with delight at the molten mass of panting McCoy before him, knees fallen apart, gazing at the ceiling, like he’d been felled -

“I stopped, like you said,” Jim said, finally, _finally_ removing his shirt and using it to wipe McCoy’s belly and his hand. McCoy watched his movements through hooded eyes.

“Yeah, but we haven’t finished yet.“ McCoy swung his legs over the edge of the bed and leaned towards him, pressing the palm of his hand against Jim’s aching, neglected cock. Heat seared through Jim’s thighs and back as he cupped McCoy’s hand with his, groaning with absolutely no care for whether he could be heard through the thin walls of the trailer or not.

“There’s petroleum jelly in my medical bag,” McCoy drawled. Jim’s eyes flickered to the side of the bed to the leather case and fumbled, extracting one pot at a time until McCoy nodded to indicate he had the right one.

He edged his britches down, taking care not to snag the dressing on his thigh, moaning with relief when he untangled his cock, circling the base with a tight grip before he lost it at the incredible sight before him. With a hiss, he pushed McCoy onto his back again, speechless with lust when he saw how readily the doctor turned onto his belly and settled on all fours.

He nudged McCoy’s thighs together and straddled the bed as best he could with his boots still on and his pants bunched around his calves. He positioned himself so he could see where he was headed while he slicked up. Jim breathed deep to control the inferno in his belly. He managed to fight the impulse to make tender assurances he’d take it slow even though Bones, leaning on his elbows, muscular ass canted towards Jim in silent invitation, seemed like his only concern was that Jim might change his mind.

With one hand on McCoy’s hip, Jim began to open McCoy up with his fingers. McCoy squirmed in discomfort, but Jim took his time. He snaked his free hand round to stroke Bones who was soon half-hard again, and twisting his face into the pillows, grumbling about how long he was taking,

“I’m not going to fucking break, you asshole.“

No, but _he_ might, Jim thought, biting his lip as he began to press his cock home, half inch by half inch, guided by McCoy’s short, gasping breaths and the press of his ass against his groin. Jim couldn’t watch his cock disappearing into Bones – the one glance he’d allowed himself had almost sent him over the edge, and he was determined that this should last. A dark niggle in his mind told him that this would probably be the only time and he wanted to savor every moment.

They both tensed as Jim was finally in as far as he could go, their combined weights pressed into the point where they were joined. Bones panted and swore beneath him, his voice sliding further south with each inch of territory Jim had taken.

“Fuck. Jesus _fuck_ , Kirk, you’re jus’-“

“Okay?” he whispered into McCoy’s back, “Bones? You okay?” He stroked McCoy’s cock to try and get some response from him. He felt rather than saw McCoy nod his head and the backward tilt of his hips was all the encouragement he needed. “Lie down, Bones,” Jim said and they both stretched out on the bed so that Jim’s prone body was flush to McCoy’s, chest to back, thigh to thigh, their legs splayed, Jim’s right hand gripping Bones’ shoulder, while the other locked onto his hip. Jim began a slow, shallow fuck despite his body raging to go harder and faster and despite Bones’ protestations.

“I’m not a fuckin’ kid, _fuck me_ , dammit!”

Jim sucked and bit McCoy’s shoulders and neck, fucked him slowly and then hissed with a combination of dismay and ecstasy when he felt McCoy’s hand snake past his hip and turn to grip his ass and pull at him to fuck harder. He felt a hitch of emotion in his throat that he didn’t quite understand, closed his eyes and bent his arm back awkwardly so he could rest his hand on McCoy’s. Thank God he couldn’t see his face, he thought dimly, but he could smell him, taste him, and God help him, _hear_ him, moaning like an animal beneath him, insistent, almost desperate as he got close, his cock driving against the mattress each time Jim slammed into him.

“Jim. _Jim_ , god…harder…dammit… _harder_ -“ McCoy roared.

“Bones, I-- “ Jim choked out and lost all sense of anything but heat and sensation and want, and he finally paid heed to McCoy’s protestations that he wasn’t fucking him nearly hard enough. Thrusting hard one more time, he came with a guttural moan he had never heard himself make before, unsure which sensations were his and which were McCoy’s, his hand still raking at Jim’s ass until his arm flopped uselessly at his side.

There was a long silence with neither of them seemingly wanting to move.

Bones rolled his neck side to side under him and Jim knew it probably wasn’t a good idea but he kissed his sweat soaked temple.

“You need to get your skinny ass off of me,” McCoy said into the pillow.

Jim slid out and nudged Bones over so there was room for him to lie down on his side. “Well,” he said a cloud of sadness edging through his chest.

“Well, what?” McCoy said. He had his back to Jim, and he sensed a sudden, cool distance opening between them. Jim felt his throat tense up. He tapped McCoy on the back with one finger, tried not to sound like he gave a shit. “What time’s your train out tomorrow?”

“It’s tomorrow _now_ , “McCoy said.

Shit.

“So,” Jim said heavily, “what time _today?”_

“I haven’t gotten a ticket yet. I planned to get something to eat, get laid maybe, take a bath – head out the following morning.”

“I see.”

“So you fucking _see_ , do ya?”

“Well, there are some pretty women over at Ma’s,“ Jim smirked.

“You should fuckin’ know, fucking Don Juan, fuckin’-“

Then Jim remembered the photo of the girl had still been on the table – Bones hadn’t packed it so Jim cut him short with his hand over his mouth relieved when Bones’ tongue flicked at his fingers. He took McCoy’s shoulder and pulled him round so they were face to face. The sight of Bones, face and neck flushed, eyebrows rubbed up all wrong from the pillow, faint red lines on his shoulders where Jim had dragged his nails and teeth, and lips all petulant and fuck bruised, nearly undid him; it was all he could do to not kiss the man but he had to _know_ before he did…

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” he said, his eyes roaming over McCoy’s face.

“Sure I am. And you’re a fucking genius?” his voice thick with sarcasm.

“Genius enough to know you suck at being a clown.”

McCoy chuckled. “The fuckin’ snake knows I’m a shit clown.“

Jim looked away from McCoy’s face, lit up by a smile that went right to his exhausted groin. “There’s plenty of work here,“ Jim said. “The animals always have shit go wrong with them, people fall from the wires…“ Jim touched his hand to McCoy’s hip. “You okay with animals?”

“Sure. I can turn my hand to any kind of innards – we’re all the same, bigger, smaller, but we all got hearts, you know.” Jim knew. “What say I stick around until your leg’s healed and until Missy’s eating properly again?” Bones yawned and turned his back on Jim.

“Yeah, that would work- few days…”

“Few days…sure.”

Jim could tell McCoy was asleep. He sat up, toed his boots and pants off, and slid under the covers. Once he was sure Bones really was asleep, he melted into the curve of his back until, he too, fell into a long, deep and dreamless sleep.


	4. chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings** : angsty UST and 19C gay angst. Also, McCoy flounces like a debutante while Jim stomps around in riding boots. Oh, and there’s absinthe use drug-taking style in part 4b.  
>  **Disclaimer** : I mean no offence and court no profits, these boys belong to others more talented and deserving, I merely borrow them, play a while then return them all cleaned up and smiley.
> 
> Intriguing snippet: _Jim thinks, he’s met his match, finally. He leans close, wanting more, just as Bones appears not to concede a damned thing. It’s fucking intoxicating._

**The Ringmaster – part 4a**

“-- and give her some cod liver oil and spinach,” McCoy finishes, snapping his medical bag shut, and unfurling the chimp’s rough hand from his coat sleeve. Victoria, one arm round Chekov’s neck, turns her head between them as if to follow their conversation.

“Where I getting spinach this time of year?” Chekov mumbles, “I think impossible, yes?”

“How should I know, kid? Use your damned imagination– find a substitute. You just need to build her up is all; she’s weak from all the sickness—“

“I think wodka then—“

“Over my dead body,” McCoy snarls good-naturedly. “We don’t need another alcoholic primate on the lot.“

Chekov blinks baby-blues, like he’s wondering if he’s been insulted or not, and McCoy smiles privately to himself while batting the chimp’s hand away. He softens his tone to address the ape:

“Right, Victoria, let me know if he slips anything into your water, you hear me? God knows he’s fool enough.“ Victoria bares yellow teeth in agreement then pouts at McCoy, letting out a little grunt which, he fancies, indicates some kind of gratitude, or maybe flirtation – damned if he knows – he’ll never understand females, that’s for sure. Who’s he kidding? He doesn’t understand males any better. “Who’s the fancy horse belong to?” McCoy stands up from his crouching position and gestures towards the big top.

“Ah, is big star of trapeze, come to see captain – The Great _Hikaru_!” Chekov’s voice rises dramatically when he says the name, like McCoy ought to give a damn.

“Never heard of him,” McCoy says, squinting in the low morning sun. “What’s he want? We’re ‘bout to shut down for the winter.”

Chekov shrugs and McCoy experiences a prickle of irritation since he’s sure the boy has every idea; he just isn’t about to share with someone like him, someone with no standing, impromptu animal doctor or not. “Well, thanks for nothing, kid. I’ll remember how helpful you were next time you get one of your headaches and come a-running to me for my special elixir…”

Chekov flashes him a look of alarm but doesn’t concede. “Go see -- he in top with Kirk.” So that’s where Jim’s gotten to… Chekov pronounces the name with a twist, _Koork_ , making it sound like an alcohol. _And as harmful and alluring_ , McCoy thinks, with an annoying flare in his groin.

“I might jus’ do that, least I can take a good look at that horse; delicate looking animal like that’s bound to need pampering. Might as well get a head start.”

McCoy taps his hat and strides towards the Big Top, kicking oak leaves aside in his path, his heart quickening. He reaches out a hand to the horse waiting patiently where it’s tied to one of the pegs. It shuffles nervously when he approaches, but shakes its head and snorts when McCoy runs the back of his hand down a sleek muzzle, its fine coat soft against his chilled fingers.

“Whoah there, fella, here – lookit what I got for you.”

The animal nudges McCoy’s shoulder while he searches in his pocket for an apple he picked up in the cook shack. He watches it munch, examines the expensive as hell saddle, while his ears strain to pick up Kirk’s voice in the hubbub coming from the top. He glances over his shoulder, and when he sees Chekov walking in the opposite direction, McCoy pats the horse’s neck and dips through the tent flaps into the arena. He flinches and steps back when a pair of show horses push past him, Gaila astride the pair, Roman-style legs splayed so she’s got one foot on each animal.

“Doctor Leonard!” she smiles broadly and he quirks an eyebrow in reply.

McCoy scours the various acts warming up and rehearsing in and around the ring: the dog act jumping through obstacles on the sawdust, the tumblers stretching and turning flip-flaps to the side.He nods politely at the other clowns running through their routines in front of the seats.

McCoy sees the damned fool, when his ears follow the sound of a loud guffaw.

Jim grins when he catches sight of McCoy, and swings back and forth in a lazy arc from the rope. McCoy’s long ceased to be surprised by the eccentric captain who’d as soon swagger into the lion’s cage as offer himself up as a practice target for Chekov’s knife throwing act. Well so, he thought, until he takes in the sight of Jim hanging by the ankles from the trapeze, bare-chested and wearing tights, his body pale and vulnerable in the diffused light. Jim’s shoulder-length hair hangs in a thick, honeyed mass beneath his smirking, upside down head.

McCoy clears his throat as he feels a familiar quickening in his belly. He takes half a dozen long strides to the side of the ring, eyes flickering towards a louche figure dressed in a pale blue wool suit, sitting astride a chair, cowboy style, chin on hands, while he contemplates Jim’s antics with a lazy grin.

“Aren’t you cold?” McCoy says, not catching Jim’s eye and feeling a little helpless when his gaze stops at the pebbled nipples. He has to look somewhere because, Christ, those tights leave _nothing_ to the— and did Jim just _wink_ at him, in front of someone else?

“Hey, Bones! Meet Mr. Sulu – he’s our new flyer! Sulu – McCoy…” His face is a little flushed from being upside down, and the trapeze sways when Jim gestures between them.

“’morning, McCoy. Looks like _I_ should be the one hiring here, don’t you think, instead of the other way around I mean?”

The flyer’s young, handsome, exuding self-confidence which makes McCoy feel an irrational desire to punch his flawless skin. Instead, he inclines his head in return, drawing in a silent breath when he sees Kirk’s stomach muscles flex and twist as he easily pulls himself upright on the bar, the sight triggering a memory of the night before, of Jim naked on his bed. . .

“Well, I got work to do.It was a real pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. Sulu.” Grinding his teeth, McCoy pulls his coat around him, spins on his heel and leaves the tent.

+++ 

With Sulu settled in a small trailer at the back of the lot, Jim returns to his own, passing by McCoy’s, unsure whether to knock on the half opened door or not. He frowns at the empty trunk propped against the steps, and wonders if Bones is planning on moving on after all. Jim shakes the thought away, decides he’s just taking an opportunity to air it in the weak December sun; after all, Bones would have said something _surely_ , if he was planning such a thing. Then again, when they _are_ together, they don’t say much that’s coherent, given the circumstances.

Jim leaves his door open while he dresses, hoping Bones will swing by, although he doesn’t hold out much hope. In the three months since things changed between them, Bones has, if anything, become even more of an ornery, slippery snake of a bastard than when he first joined the troupe. It’s something Jim can’t figure out.

He pulls on his britches and tucks in his shirt tails, while he thinks about it all. In private, McCoy continues to fight and wrestle for dominance in bed, yet in the end, always concedes to Jim: biting lips become soft and eager, fists become caresses, grumbles soften into moans. Jim closes his eyes momentarily, bringing back a series of images and sensations that have him half-hard so that he has to adjust himself. He curses, buttons up his flies and reaches for his vest. They’ve fallen asleep together in McCoy’s tiny bed every time, but it’s pretty clear Bones wants Jim out and back in his own bed by sun up. And Bones hasn’t so much as put a toe past Jim’s doorway since this all began.

He checks George Kirk’s pocket watch, snaps it shut and hooks it onto his vest. Thinks about how he’s never told anyone else whose it was, other than Bones.

But, when he thinks about it, it’s no surprise they don’t see much of each other in daylight. Jim’s day varies from sleeping in, business meetings with Chekov, negotiating the route, taking on local youths to put up and dismantle the top, organizing bill posters, watching the acts train and so forth. And McCoy’s increasingly busy tending to the many ailments and minor injuries of the crew and the circus animals, as well as keeping up his walk-about, hobo-clown act. Truth be told, Jim barely has time to think about Bones, not until he unexpectedly catches sight of his rangy, furrow-browed figure, and Jim’s body trips him up, so to speak, like now, desire twisting through him and about as difficult to ignore as stomach cramps.

And Jim’s noticed how, while Bones never spurns him in private, he also doesn’t appear to seek Jim out in public. He doesn’t sit next to Jim in the cook shack, barely looks at him when they’re in public like earlier. Why was Bones in the top in the first place if not to find him? Yet he up and left just like that, as if Jim equated to a bad smell.

Of course, he could just _ask_ , Jim thinks, while he pulls on his velvet ringmaster’s coat. But Jim’s worked out one thing about Bones – he doesn’t like to talk, not about his life at least, about why the hell a doctor’s even ended up in a circus of all places. And maybe that’s why he fits right in – everyone here’s got their story. And no one asks awkward questions. Jim stands on his steps, gazes up at the pale, damp December sky and experiences a flood of joy, followed by dread -- he can’t make heads or tails of any of this.

He should be nothing but happy. Theirs is one of the first acts to play the recently opened City Park, New Orleans – another turnaway, all tickets sold two days ago. Yeah, Enterprise Circus is getting big time, turning a profit. And now he’s enticed Sulu to join them: the flyer’s such a draw, he’ll have to consider a larger top, maybe two rings working two acts at the same time. But, it’s not enough and he can’t help looking over the heads of the few who haven’t taken their seats yet, at McCoy’s wagon.

He wonders whether he should knock on McCoy’s door, see if he’s still there – it’s been hours since they were together, after all. Jim feels that dread again, examines that train of thought. Yep,‘together’ seems entirely the ‘wrong’ word for whatever the hell this strange dance between them is.

“Hey, Captain, wanna come by and watch the jump? It’s pretty smooth now!”

“Yeah, right behind you.” Jim slams his door shut, pushes his top hat at a rakish angle and, crop in hand, follows the trotting horse past the line of late-comers, nodding, touching his hat as he walks, his eyes fixed on Gaila’s buttocks, the lift, where they bounce up and down on the horse’s back.

Since it’s the day before Christmas Eve, and the last of the season, they’ve squeezed in two specs, an early matinee and an afternoon one so they’re through before sunset. He’s negotiated an extra week’s rental in City Park to see them into New Year’s when the crew can kick back, and rest up before they head to winter quarters in California.

The glorious smell of chestnuts, popcorn and cotton candy surround him from the now deserted food stalls, most of the crowd having taken their seats or in line. Then he spots McCoy in costume, rounding the back of the souvenir stall, locked up until after the show end. He’s taking a short cut to the back yard, the performers’ entrance. Jim doubles back.

The space between the stand and a nearby trailer, is narrow and in shadow, and with the sound of the band warming up in the top, Jim stretches out a gloved hand and grabs McCoy by the shoulder, spins him round and backs him up against the wooden partition.

“Dammit, Jim,” but it’s half-hearted, like all his protestations are. Jim licks his lips when he sees how McCoy glowers but doesn’t attempt to shake free.

He runs a finger across McCoy’s stubbled cheek. “You’ve been avoiding me—“

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.“ Bones is eye to eye with him, same height, practically the same build, whip smart and, with that unwavering gaze, _fuck_ , Jim thinks, he’s met his match, finally. He leans close, wanting more, just as Bones appears not to concede a damned thing. It’s fucking intoxicating.

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Jim whispers close to his ear, inhaling the scent of cigars in McCoy’s hair, the cloying odor of pan stick on his skin. “You’re worse than Keenser to keep a hold of.” And to make his point he works his free hand under McCoy’s coat, rests it on his hip, holds him still. Bones arches into Jim’s touch, just as his glare pushes away.

“You’re about as easy to avoid as the pox in a whore-house,” McCoy huffs, eyes raking Jim’s face, his hands resting on, but not holding onto, Jim’s arms.

“Not for you.” Jim drags a thumb across McCoy’s lower lip, reveling in how those slim hips cant almost imperceptibly towards him, even as the ever defiant chin juts forward. Jesus, the man’s a shitty actor.

“Was I avoidin’ you when you came to me last night like an incubus?” McCoy’s accent gives away his desire, as always. Jim struggles against the need to grind his hips forward, aware of how teasing seems to anger McCoy and, much to his amusement, inflame him, too.

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.“ Jim works a knee between McCoy’s thighs and lifts it gently to press against him.

“Jim, I…” McCoy croaks, glances over Kirk’s shoulder. “We’ll be seen—“

“So fucking what?” Kirk’s hand strays to the waistband of McCoy’s loose, hobo pants. He hooks a thumb proprietarily inside but doesn’t respond to the unconscious invitation, the tilt of McCoy’s hips; Jim wants to tease, _make_ Bones want more.

“You’re like an infant, one with raging priapism.“

“Well,whose fault is that?” It’s true-- that voice, that drawl…

“I don’t know, Jim, seems to me that’s your usual state of affairs, whether I’m here or not, and”-- then McCoy’s voice dips to a harsh whisper--“we can’t do this here, not in broad daylight -- we’ll be _seen_.”

Jim stills when he detects genuine reluctance for the first time, in his voice, in the way Bones shoots a look over his shoulder. So, despite being achingly hard, Jim brushes his lips against McCoy’s, and reluctantly lets go. For now.

+++ 

Throughout the opening parade, McCoy, in his hobo clown costume and make-up, sits on the edge of the ring, warming his hands by one of the braziers lighting up the chilly interior. It’s all part of his act, his downbeat look and posture, the way he pretends to toast his boots above the flames for his supper, the way he shivers and tucks his hands under his armpits.

He’s just color, he needs no special skill or training; he simply wanders through the crowd doing little tricks, making kids laugh for nickels and dimes. And it’s all he needs – the rent on his trailer, waived since he became lion doctor and hangover dispenser, mender of broken limbs and fixer of stake bites when drunken dumbasses shred their ankles stumbling through the lot in the dark, and, he thinks with a sickening lurch in his guts, the ringmaster’s woman. He’s pretty sure no one knows about them; well, maybe Spock and his supernatural ability to glean what the hell’s going on in people’s minds and hearts. Hell, the sallow skinned bastard’s mighty tight with Jim and gives him some damned pointed looks, that’s for sure.

Kirk’s voice, as he announces all the acts in the Grand Entry to cheers and applause, cuts through McCoy, brings him back to that which has been crowding out most thoughts of late. Loud, preening, annoying-as-hell Jim Kirk – filling up space in his head and heart just like he commands the five hundred people in the top, beautiful and impossible to ignore.

McCoy hadn’t intended to stay longer than another month or so but here he is, part of the scenery, maybe part of… he looks up at a kid sitting in the front row who’s pointing at him, saying something to his Mom, so McCoy holds up his boot as if he’s offering to share his ‘meal’, and the kid laughs, offers his cotton candy in return. McCoy swallows, looks away from the innocent face that’s all filled up with Christmas awe, glances at the kid’s dad to his side and wishes, well, he wishes for something that’s never to be, looks like.

Two more shows, and he’ll burn these boots for real, see about finding something else to do, maybe even see if a practice will take him on, now he’s found his sea legs again, so to speak. Nothing for him here, nothing that’ll withstand the cruel scrutiny of daylight leastways. And, yeah, he’s known that all along…

The last act on before the interval is Spock’s oracle act. He performs at the front of the ring so the big cat act can set up behind him, the cages and complex run ways to and from the arena.

“ _No one_ is safe, ladies and gentlemen!” Jim announces in full ringmaster boom, “Your secrets are _not_ safe, the skeletons _will_ come _bursting_ from their closets – for now, from yet undiscovered lands in the Far East, _I give to you_ \-- mind reader, _Spock the Oracle_!”

Chekov’s violin, from the orchestra, begins a plaintive wail and a thudding drum accompanies Spock’s glide to his spot at the front of the crowd. The clowns scatter and stumble away as Spock approaches, dragging each other by their coat tails, some gripping their heads in ‘fear’, abandoning their unicycles and props in their hurry to escape The Oracle’s probing mind. He appears not to notice them, stops when he reaches an ornamental table on top of which rests an immense glass bowl filled with opaque envelopes the size of calling cards.

McCoy stays where he is, pretending to sleep until Spock’s hand hovers over his sleeping head and McCoy starts, ‘bites his nails’ and rushes to the front row where he clings to an old lady who swats him with her gloves. McCoy pulls out a bunch of flowers from his pocket and she takes them blushing heavily, pushing a coin into his hand.

Spock raises an eyebrow and an excited hush descends upon the audience just as the music stops.

Spock closes his eyes and holds his hands above the cards, leaves them hanging there as if he’s listening to silent music emanating from then and, finally opens his eyes and appears to come back to himself. The only sounds are an occasional cough from the audience and, dramatically, a roar from the lions waiting in their pens outside the tent. McCoy watches, his heart pounding despite himself, as Spock finally selects one of the multitude of cards crammed within the bowl, and draws it out between finger and thumb holding it aloft. He transfers the card so it nestles between the palms of his hands while he scans the circle of faces in the front row.

McCoy’s heart beats hard as he waits for Spock to open the first, wonders if this is what every one of the crowd is experiencing too.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Spock says, the audience leaning automatically towards him to pick up his modulated tones, “I have here the questions you placed in the bowl as you entered the big top.” He regards the sealed envelope, and tosses the first card to the sawdust. There’s a faint gasp, followed by ripples of laughter when he continues to extract cards from deep within the bowl and throw those aside too. Finally he takes one and narrows his eyes in approval, moves it in a wide arc for the audience to see.

McCoy sneaks a glance at Jim but he can’t make out his expression, he’s too far away, so he concentrates on the performance as the crowd falls into silence again. Spock has them.

“I have simple answers to life’s difficult questions,” Spock says, inclining his head to read the initials written on the card. “A.C. – make yourself known!”

A cry form the back seats, a woman’s voice, and they wait as McCoy finds her, part of his job to act as the limelight temporarily falling on the chosen subject. He winds through the seats, and his shoulders slump as he becomes his character, something McCoy’s noticed he’s finding harder over the past few weeks – the trademark shuffle and bowed head, all part of the hobo act and once second nature, now a conscious effort.

He resists looking over his shoulder to check if Kirk’s eyes are following him, and he fancies he can feel them boring into his back, even among the hundreds of other eyes following his progress. Once he’s located A.C. and the crowd’s clapping its encouragement when she stands, McCoy steps away and takes up a position before some bored looking children. He adopts his best plaintive face and flutters his eyes at their cotton candy.

“Mommy, the poor clown’s hung-wee!” a little girl says, pointing a sticky finger at him. McCoy pulls out a colored ball from his pocket and the mother laughs, hands him a coin.

“You want to know… “ Spock speaks finally, feigning concentration by bringing his fingers to his brow, “…forgive me, madam… is… does your query concern travel?”

McCoy doesn’t need to look to know that the woman’s mouth will have dropped open in delighted surprise. Fools, the whole lot of them, he thinks, hanging onto every thread of hope, believing that there is indeed purpose in the universe, rather than chaos, loneliness and occasional illusions of connection.

The crowd _oo_ -es and McCoy strides deeper within them pulling coins out from behind children’s ears, removing a kid, about four or five years old, from a chair and plonking her onto her father’s lap so he can ‘steal’ her seat. He crosses his legs and leans his head on the little girl’s shoulders, ignoring the way his heart squeezes when he inadvertently inhales the scent from her dark, wavy hair that reminds him of…

“In that case, madam,” Spock’s baritone fills the arena, McCoy had no idea how, because he doesn’t technically raise it, “I would advise you take the journey which is your heart’s desire.”

McCoy sees him bow and the crowd cheers its approval, and Spock reaches for another card. He waits for the applause to die down before he speaks.

“L.H.M,“ he calls next and McCoy freezes. He’s only trying to catch the tigh-assed bastard out; he even had trouble _thinking_ of the question – not that it matters, he tells himself, Spock never actually _opens_ the envelopes. Nevertheless, McCoy doesn’t stand up and identify himself, hoping his silence will encourage Spock to move onto another victim, yet he wonders at himself, and what should compel him to mess with fate like this.

McCoy knows Spock won’t be able to see his expression this far back, won’t take any pleasure in his discomfort, not that this mysterious man, from God knows where, has ever expressed any pleasure in _anything_ so far as McCoy knows from their few, tepid interactions. Yet again, he succumbs to the instinct to run away, so he abandons his ‘stolen’ seat and, when Spock looks in his direction, McCoy flumps down onto his haunches and pretends to hide under the front of his baggy coat, much to the to amusement of the couple next to him. They toss him a coin and he bites it, earning another laugh, and tucks it in his vest pocket.

“L.H.M. – identify yourself!”

Damn, why was Spock looking in his direction? How could he know? He’s never told anyone his middle name for one thing. McCoy wonders not for the first time how these tricks work. He’s watched Spock mingle with the line as they showed their tickets, an eyebrow arched while he listens to their conversations. He has a prodigious memory for detail and McCoy’s certain he doesn’t read the correct initials out, but selects audience members based solely on his eavesdropping, memorizing their names when he’s overheard them, using the initials that match rather than read the ones off the envelope. And Jim plays his part. He knows they discuss and plan the act together, exchanging ideas and techniques so they can read people, work out what they want and need.

Still, how can Spock know that McCoy put a card in the bowl, when he’d ensured the man was nowhere in sight at the time? _Maybe Spock is telepathic after all,_ he considers not for the first time since he’s seen the act. Then he reminds himself again that, if he did believe in anything not explained by the sciences, it would be Bad Luck.

“It appears LHM has left the big top,” Spock stares directly at McCoy, “but since someone here may be acquainted with him, I will answer the question nevertheless.”

McCoy retreats further until he’s behind the last row of seats and he watches, listens, heart beating, from his place by the canvas. He finds himself, yet again, searching for Jim, wondering if he’d be interested should Spock, through some miracle, come up with an answer.

“Your question concerns travel also, not of the kind associated with trains and carriages. Instead, this is a journey of the spirit, a leap of faith,” Spock pauses for dramatic effect. “I say to you, LHM, follow The Green Fairy.”

There’s a shocked gasp from the audience, believing erroneously, that Spock’s referring to absinthe. It can’t be. But he has his own theory… McCoy experiences a wave of nausea and, for the second time that day, he finds himself rushing to escape the tent, gasping for calming breaths as he looks up at the darkening skies for answers.

What the hell did that mean? This is Jim’s nickname for Gaila. What on earth can Gaila do to help him decide?

+++

“Wake up, McCoy!”

Scotty. Well, bless his soul.

“Fuck off!” McCoy bellows, burrowing his head under the pillow. It’s now pitch dark in his trailer, the tea light he’d lit long burned away. The feathers don’t muffle out the sounds of revelry entirely and he wishes he’d pushed ear plugs in. _It’s too late for that,_ he thinks bitterly, when the persistent knocking has him considering digging out his scalpels, showing Scotty how Chekov isn’t the only one who knows how to use knives.

“Something wrong with your ears, you Scottish—“ McCoy throws his pillow in the general direction of the door. The knocking stops.

“Missy wants ya.“

“Liar,” he growls, sitting up in bed, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, doctor, if I hadn’t drunk half a bottle of whiskey I’d take that the wrong way, but I can tell ya worked it out, so, okay -- it’s the captain. He’s mighty sore you’re not there.“

“I’m _busy_ …I need to sleep. I’ve got a train to catch tomorrow.”

There’s quiet while Scotty considers this.

“McCoy, I’m telling yous, the Captain’s in the Christmas spirit and he wants his whole family around him when he’s having a good time. I don’t want to be the one tae tell him you’ve turned him down.”

But he’s _no_ t family. McCoy gave up that dream the day he left Jocelyn, his daughter, and traveled north. Yet, he wavers and throws back the blankets, the feeling of someone wanting him around, something he’s not experienced in a long, long while, compelling him. And he should see Jim one last time, he owes him that at least, a proper goodbye.

“I’m leaving in the mornin’, Monty, pointless me coming. I need to get some rest.”

The door’s thrown open and the pale-skinned Scotsman waltzes in wearing a wife-beater and a kilt despite the cool evening air. “Come on, you arsehole, trust me, you _want_ to be in the Big ‘Un; Kirk’s dancing and _that’s_ something every fucker needs to see before they pop their clogs, trust me!”

“You’re a fucking bully, Monty, anyone ever tell you that?” McCoy grumbles, but his feet are already on the floor. “Did he send you?”

Scotty fixes his eyes on a point over McCoy’s shoulder. “Not in so many words but I know him, better than I know those cats of mine and, well, he’s a miserable git when he doesn’t get his own way. Man hates Christmas, that’s why he puts so much bloody effort into it – he believes in hitting the enemy hard, if you follow my drift?”

“Fine, you’ve talked me into it. I’m getting up, I’m coming. _Fine_.” Jesus, he doubts he’ll fall asleep now anyway.

Scotty hands him a half-full bottle of bourbon and backs out of the trailer, putting his cap back on once he’s outside.

McCoy glances at his pocket watch: it’s 8pm which means he’s slept right through the second show, and they’ll all have had a couple of hours head start on him drinking. By the sound of things, he’ll be up all night. He takes a slug of the bourbon and considers pulling on a clean shirt but he knows everyone will still be in costume since the festivities would have started the second the last punter was off the lot, so decides against it and just grabs his coat, knocking back mouthfuls of booze on his way to the tent.

When he lifts the flap this time, despite the soft lighting, he spots the goddamned show off immediately. He’s dancing with Gaila in the centre of the ring and McCoy feels a flash of desire at his easy elegance, the way his face glows in the light of the candles, his coat tails swinging as he moves.

The chairs from the stands are now arranged in groups round the outside of the ring. Chekov’s standing on the low, perimeter wall, violin under his chin. He bucks and sways with the passion of the tango he’s playing. Jim’s in full performance mode and swings Gaila back and forth, the onlookers whooping and cheering them on.

McCoy grabs a tumbler from a trestle table laden with bottles and mismatched glasses and crockery brought by the crew. He considers taking something to line his stomach from the array of food: an enormous pot of gumbo, bread, cheeses, pies and pastries ordered in from the city, but he finds his appetite’s gone. He pours himself a drink, takes a couple of mouthfuls, and finds a seat next to Uhura who smiles and strokes her snake, Keenser, soothingly when he becomes excited at McCoy’s presence. McCoy tickles the snake under the chin and sits back, crossing one leg over the other, marveling at the strangeness of what constitutes ‘normal’ in circus life.

“Dancing’s another of his talents, I see?”

“They say he worked in the dance halls, making a living out of those old ladies when he first left Iowa,” Uhura explains.

McCoy processes this, wonders what the hell brought Jim to circus life in the first place when, looks like, he could turn his hand to anything if he put his mind to it.

Jim hasn’t seen him; the arrogant bastard’s too wrapped up in Gaila. Then McCoy turns when hears a familiar voice.

“Hey Gaila, try me. Kirk’s too old and stiff!”

It’s Sulu, snake hipped and elegant in coat tails and a wing collared shirt. Damn him, why’s he still here? Hasn’t he got a home to go to over the holidays? McCoy glares as Sulu strides towards Gaila. He clicks his heels, bows, then offers his elbow.

Gaila makes a show of pushing Jim away and he tumbles to the floor with as much panache as the most accomplished clown. The crew bellow with laughter when he feigns offence. Jim gets up unsteadily, brushes off his red jacket and slips it off, handing it to the nearest pair of hands. Then he removes his cufflinks, puts them in his vest pocket and rolls up his sleeves, his gold brocade vest accentuating his slender frame, making him look so damned handsome, McCoy wants to down his bottle in one pull.

Sulu takes Gaila’s hand and swings her in a wide arc and she snaps her red heels to the ground, her green costume sparkling as she turns, tosses her head ready to dance with him.

Meanwhile, Jim advances towards the pair and there’s a dramatic _Oooh!_ from the onlookers. Chekov’s violin is silent while he waits for Kirk to cut in. To everyone’s surprise, Jim advances on Sulu rather than Gaila, and McCoy feels a pit form in his stomach as he watches Jim’s feet slide as if he’s still dancing, and the pit deepens still when Jim places a hand on the flyer’s shoulder. McCoy’s reminded of the feel of those fingers on his face earlier and pours himself another glass, almost spits it out across his lap when he sees Sulu release Gaila, who brings her fingers to her brow in a pantomime sob and runs from the ring to loud applause.

The tension’s palpable while Sulu and Kirk stare each other down like bullfighters, then a tentative note from the violin is the pair’s cue to move-- they turn side on and McCoy watches Kirk’s hand snake to Sulu’s hip where he grips him and turns him until they begin their tango, eye to eye, cheek to cheek, much to the delight of everyone present. Except McCoy who feels a wave of unexpected possessiveness that somehow communicates to Keenser, who stretches towards him, tongue rippling between them.

 _So that’s how it is?_ McCoy thinks, unable to look away as the two beautiful men move elegantly about the dance area. Jim, of course, is leading, his hand sliding across Sulu’s back as they turn, their legs snapping up and back, feet clicking in unison, so wrapped up in each other they’re seemingly oblivious to the whoops and cheers ringing through the top.

Uhura touches McCoy’s arm and he nudges it off gently, when in reality he wants to upend the table, punch both the men in the face and drag Jim from the tent by the hair. He feels a touch on his shoulder and senses a wave of empathy from a warm hand. It’s Spock but the hand’s gone before McCoy can react to the invasion.

“They are old friends,” he hears Spock say. _No shit._

When their faces draw close, then their heads snap back in unison, McCoy begins to feel a little light-headed, shame lighting up his neck and ears and he’s glad no one’s looking at him and can witness his humiliation.

So this is what Spock meant, the green fairy _was_ Gaila. He was right all along. She would show him the answer to his question: _Who has the ringmaster’s heart?_ It’s with the young, preening, elegant, energetic, confident-as-Jim _upstart_ , The Great _fucking_ Hikaru. _This_ is why Jim wanted him here, so he could send this message. _Alright, there is a place for me in this family_ , McCoy thinks, looking round at the laughing, appreciative, doting expressions on everyone’s face present, directed at their leader. But he, L.H. fucking M., is low down the pecking order and no one, but no one makes Leonard McCoy second best. Least he’s found his pride again-- hell, he guesses that’s something to salvage from the ashes.

He’s about to stand, take the bourbon with him, when the violin stops abruptly and he looks back at Jim and Sulu. Sulu’s diagonal to the floor, his body across Jim’s and Jim’s forehead is almost pressed to his when Jim suddenly looks in McCoy’s direction, unblinking, ardent. All eyes turn towards him so that McCoy almost looks over his shoulder to see what the hell’s caught the idiot’s eye.

He holds his breath, and Jim finally folds Sulu further back, almost brings his lips to his, then drops him unceremoniously to the saw dust to wild, appreciative laughter. Jim steps over his abandoned dance partner, and strides towards McCoy. They’re two foot apart; the top’s silent, waiting for one of them to move or say something. McCoy can feel sweat at his neck, wishes he’d taken off his goddamned coat, wishes he’d left earlier, but he can’t tear his eyes off Jim’s face where he looms above him. What the hell…

Jim’s frowning, and it’s real, not acting. Jim’s large hands clench by his side and McCoy feels a crackle of tension as Jim goes out of focus. He feels those hands grabbing him by the hair as warm, angry lips bite and lick at his, as if Jim’s life depends on it. McCoy is dimly aware of someone removing the bottle of bourbon from his fingers before he drops it, and then he’s pulling Jim as hard as the other man’s pushing, the sound of spontaneous applause drowning out the drumming of his heart in his throat.

+++

They stumble the short distance between the big top and McCoy’s trailer, stopping every few steps to grind against each other. Kirk’s uncharacteristically quiet, the sweat from the dance cooling on his body, too much wine and adrenaline, the taste of Bones making him euphoric, and he doesn’t trust what he’ll say, but eventually he pulls his mouth away from Bones’, manages to speak.

“Jesus, Bones,” he harshes out between kisses as Bones backs up the steps, fumbling with the catch behind him. “You fucking glower at me like that again in front of the crew, I… _fuck_ …won’t be responsible for what I do to you.”

They fall through the door, tearing at each others‘ clothes, Jim cursing when his britches tangle around his boots again. Bones hasn’t said a word since that first kiss, other than the occasional gasped curse. Now he’s dropped to his knees, holding Jim steady as he licks and bites along his hip bones, nuzzles his face into the hair over his erect cock. Jim cups the back of his head, rocks gently into Bones’ mouth, dimly wondering if they’ve even closed the door; moonlight fills the tiny area so that McCoy’s thick, dark hair shines like lacquer, his own fingers white, almost translucent in the eerie light. Shit, he’s had way too much to drink, and it’s Christmas Eve already and another successful run’s done and… ”Bones – stop! Fuck, _stop_! “

And the response is muffled even though, mercifully, Bones has taken a break from swallowing him whole so as he can leave a trail of rough kisses along Jim’s balls, while his hand keeps his cock hard and aching. “You ever gonna get the simple fact that I _don’t_ do what you tell me, idiot?” McCoy grinds out.

Jim nods stupidly, even as he recognizes that, well, that _this_ , the brutal suction is _precisely_ what Bones would be doing every waking hour if he was the one pulling the strings. But Jim feels like he lost all control or good sense the minute he saw Bones watching him dance with Gaila. He remembers the look of confused possessiveness, the angry need, the way Bones gripped his tumbler of bourbon in one hand, the bottle in the other, the way, yet again all of Bones’ pleasures were wound up with some kind of struggle first. Why couldn’t he just let go? _Why does everything have to be a battle?_ he wonders even as Bones is the one rolling him onto the unmade bed, prowling over him, muttering, “Damned fool, damned strutting…”

Their eyes meet and Jim keens as Bones slides an arm under his shoulders, rolls them both over onto their sides and lines up their cocks, working a leg behind Jim’s thighs to bring him closer. Jim grips his arms, shifts to untangle his open shirt and vest that have caught and twisted under an armpit and Bones’ long fingers hold them both tight.

“Harder, Bones, _shit_ …” So naturally, _because_ he’s an ornery SOB, Bones _slows_ the pace, strong hands sliding up and down both their cocks at the same time, helped by the pre-come leaking, the musky scent of their arousal making Jim dizzy with need.

Bones rests his lips against Jim’s, not kissing him, just smothering him in warm, moist bourbon laced breath. He regards Jim as he tortures him for endless minutes, watching his reactions, until Jim comes suddenly, in long, helpless spasms. Bones growls, groans long and hard, sealing their mouths together, choking through his own orgasm, until he stills, panting, his forehead wet with perspiration, sliding hot against Jim’s throat

They collapse on their backs, sweat slicked and breathless, both staring at the low ceiling. Jim’s aware something’s changed, although he’s unsure what the hell that might be. Still unable to say if this was goodbye or something else.

“I’m not comfortable with public shows of affection, Jim,” Bones says eventually into the darkness.

Affection? That’s not quite what he’d call what just happened, but Jim grunts, pushes his ass into Bones’ slippery groin and pretends to fall asleep, too tired to remove his boots or his crumpled clothing, but happy in some kind of way he’s unable to fathom.

+++

When McCoy wakes in the morning, Jim’s gone.


	5. chapter 4b (or 5!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings** : angsty UST and 19C gay angst. Also, McCoy flounces like a debutante while Jim stomps around in riding boots. Oh, and there’s absinthe use drug-taking style in this part.
> 
>  
> 
> Intriguing snippet: _McCoy’s shoulders slump. He looks up and down the street at the hawkers, the families walking past the boutiques and cafes, and he winces. _Damn_. Damn Jim Kirk and his blatant disregard for propriety._

**Title** : The Ringmaster 4b/4   
**Rating** : nc-17  
 **Character/Pairing** : Kirk/McCoy   
**Wordcount** : approx 9,550 words (this part)

 

 **The Ringmaster - part4b**

McCoy sits at the foot of his bed, pulling on his boots; his trunk’s packed. He blinks against blades of light when his door’s thrown open. What the hell is it with everyone bursting in and out of his quarters like they own the goddamned place?

His fingers freeze when he sees Jim silhouetted against the morning sunshine, face hidden in the glare.

“Christmas Eve, Bones!” Even without a clear view of his features, McCoy knows Jim’s smirking. Damn, he was hoping he could avoid goodbyes –

“I need a loan of one of the horses, Jim,” he says, making a fair attempt at preventing his voice from cracking. He fiddles with the frayed ends of his laces again.

Jim seems to ignore this, and strides through the door bringing a blast of chilled air with him. He’s carrying an enamel bucket which he places in the centre of the small space with a grunt.

“ _You_ need a shave,” he says cocking his head to the side, rubbing his hands together then pointing at McCoy with a long pale finger; if McCoy wasn’t so mad, so fucking _hurt_ , he’d bite it. He stands and takes the two steps that separate them.

“I always need a shave, “McCoy tries to joke, “thanks for the water. I’ll get to it now, so unless there’s something else—“

“Bones—“Jim swallows, looks him up and down, and McCoy fancies there’s a slight tremor in his voice. “I’ve never seen you scrubbed up.”

“Hey! I wash!” McCoy scowls, gestures towards his washstand and the face cloth he used a short time ago.

“Yeah, but what about this?” Jim grabs the lapels of the hobo coat. “You really think they’re going to let you on a train wearing this piece of crap?”

Motes of dust float in the early morning sunshine. McCoy frowns; he was hardly planning on first class, so what the hell? And as Jim continues to smirk at him, fuck, but he wants to bite that smug look right off the bastard’s face. But, he mustn’t allow himself to be distracted, “Jim, I…”

“I need to _ask you_ , right? That’s it, isn’t it?” Jim’s eyes are wide, innocent and his eyebrows practically meet as he contemplates McCoy.

McCoy shakes his head, wishes he’d had some breakfast, something to soak up the bile churning in his stomach at the thought of leaving. He glances at his open trunk, looks over Jim’s shoulder at the open door.

“Ask me _what_ , precisely, Jim?”

Not that there’s anything Jim _can_ say. Last night, well, it was another one of those…he struggles for the words, not sure how to make sense of any of this storm of feeling that keeps flaring up between them. But Jim left and it hurt. He _had_ to leave. And there’s the rub…

Jim cants his head, licks his lips, eyes wary; he runs one hand up McCoy’s chest, while the other rests on the back of his head, fingers gentle for once, like he’s soothing a horse. Yet Jim doesn’t pull McCoy close or try to kiss him. McCoy’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed, finds yet again he’s locked in limbo, unable to shake Jim off, or pull him closer.

Finally, Jim speaks. “The water’s going cold, Bones, we need to get you looking presentable – we’re going into the city.”

What in heaven’s name is the matter with the kid? Hasn’t he made himself clear?

Jim’s eyes skate over McCoy’s face, blazing blue, hypnotizing him so that McCoy finds himself wavering. Then, he hears himself say:

“We are?”

“Sure. We’re going to have some fun for once, well,” and Jim smirks -- ‘course he does, the stubborn, doesn’t-know-the-meaning-of-the-word-defeat, _annoying_ \-- “with our clothes on for a change.” McCoy’s cock twitches, and he thinks about Sulu’s gelding, envies the beast its peace.

“ _You_ are an arrogant asshole,” McCoy says, fighting a smile.

“So they tell me.“

“How am I supposed to get out of town if I miss my train?”

“You’re not. You’re going to stay.”

“Is that right?”

Jim nods, pats McCoy on the chest and guides him to the door. “I’ll bring up a chair, you get a towel. Come on, Bones, water’s getting cold, my man.“

“You already said that, and I’m _not_ your man.“

Jim snorts, steps through the door, looks over his shoulder. “Hey, you even own a razor?”

When McCoy scowls, Jim grins like he’s just won some kind of victory and skips down the steps, striding across the lot to his trailer.

McCoy slams down the lid of the trunk and gives it a kick. “Fuck,” he growls, taking off his coat and flinging it on the bed. “Goddamned persistent asshole—“

He leans in the doorway watching Jim’s ass as he disappears into his own trailer, and removes his vest and lowers his suspenders.

It’s a beautiful morning, the sunshine breaking through the last of the early mist in City Park. In what was once a plantation, the remaining, ancient oaks stretch black and solid against the smudged skyline. He can smell eggs from the cook shack and his stomach rumbles. Cupcake’s got some hope if he thinks anyone’ll be up after last night.

“Leonard!”

It’s Uhura looking fresh-faced and beautiful in a scarlet wool jacket and ankle length skirt, her hair twisted in an elaborate chignon. He manages not to splutter at the sight of her arm in arm with Spock of all people –- _when did they. . . ?_

“Morning,” McCoy says, touching the imaginary brim of a hat, “it’s mighty fine to see you. _Both_.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Spock says evenly. “I trust you slept well.”

Well, he did, for two hours or so, until he woke up and found Jim was gone.

“About as well as you, I’m sure,” McCoy says, ignoring the prickle of panic in the back of his neck. He’d forgotten they’d all seen. _Damn_ – but he plows on. “You look very…rested—“ _Act like nothing happened._

Uhura punches Spock’s arm gently and giggles, bringing a hand up to her mouth.

“It is pleasing the run is over,” Spock says, glancing at his arm and apparently oblivious to the sarcasm in McCoy’s voice, “and I am gratified The Oracle act has been well received.” He adjusts his gloves and gazes unblinkingly at McCoy with dark, impenetrable eyes. “I noted you were not present for the second show, doctor. It was fortuitous Nyota was able to step in and help. I wish to convey my gratitude for your assistance these past few weeks; you brought a certain pathos to the performance.“

“That’s me, pathos in a bottle,” McCoy agrees. “And you’re welcome.” The sight of Jim walking back towards them, carrying a chair, lifts his spirits, makes him playful. He drags his eyes back to Spock. “Tell me, Spock, did you ever find L.H.M.?”

Uhura looks between them. “Who’s that, Spock?”

Spock inclines his head, regards her and, dear God, is he actually _smiling_? McCoy remembers the unexpected warm but brief touch to his shoulder the night before and his scalp prickles, tries to gauge if there’s empathy, satisfaction, sympathy – what?-- in that steady gaze. Maybe Jim’s right, maybe there is more to this fellow than he first thought. Nevertheless, he shoots Spock one of his best glares and folds his arms.

Fortunately Jim’s there before Spock can elaborate.

“You have become an early riser in recent months,” Spock observes, “an uncharacteristic—“

“Mind your own business, Oracle-boy,” Jim says, clapping Spock on the back. “Say, McCoy and I are taking a day in New Orleans so you’re in charge. Think you can handle things?”

“Most certainly, captain,” Spock says. “There will be little for me to do for today we rest, other than make preparations for tomorrow’s festivities. You will return for our Christmas banquet, I trust?”

“Try and stop me!”

“Since you appear enthusiastic about the prospect, it would be illogical of me to attempt to stop you,” Spock says with a quirk of his eyebrow.

Jim laughs, ushers McCoy up the steps and slams the door behind him.

“Dammit, Jim. You’re damned indiscreet.“

“I am? Really? Well, maybe last night…”

He shoots McCoy a look which is so lacking in remorse, McCoy wants to drop to his knees there and then, and teach him a fucking lesson. Instead, he huffs and watches Jim arrange the chair and washstand near the door, then open the curtain on the small window. Jim thinks a moment, and lights the oil lamp.

“ _I’m_ doing this, Bones,” he says, in what McCoy’s come to recognize as Jim’s ‘I’ll take no shit’ tone. “You’ll need to sit down,” and now his voice is laced with intent, “it’ll work better.”

“Will it now?” But, for once, McCoy doesn’t argue; instead he sits, leans back, spreads his legs to give Jim access.

Jim fills the jug with warm water, and seals the enamel bucket, transfers it into the wash bowl and wets the badger hair brush. He begins to work a lather in the shave bowl, frowning as he does so, glancing up at McCoy occasionally.

“What?” McCoy says, suddenly feeling defensive. Jim places the laden brush on the table and spreads a towel across McCoy’s chest, their eyes catch and Jim’s eyes crinkle.

“This is a brush of _exceptional_ quality,” Jim starts.

“It’s an heirloom.” McCoy closes his eyes and tries to shut out the image of the compassion in Jim’s expression. It’s none of his business -- McCoy’s done with that episode in his life.

“It’s just,” Jim says, and McCoy can feel his body heat as Jim looms over him, can smell the soap as the soft bristles and the cool lather touch his skin, “not the sort of thing a hobo would have in his carpet bag,” Jim continues.

“You’re not wrong, kid—“

“Seems like once, maybe a while ago, _maybe_ , you weren’t in a position where you had to scrabble for dimes.”

“I’ve never scrabbled for a darn thing my whole life, asshole,” McCoy says, shutting out the image of how he wrestled to release Jim’s cock from his pants the night before. _That_ doesn’t count.

Maybe it’s the insistent touch of the brush, the circular motion lulling him, but McCoy’s got no fight in him – not at this present moment. He’s not _letting on_ that’s how he feels, so he growls:

“You spend too much time with that mentalist.”

McCoy feels a huff of air close to his face when Jim lets out a low laugh. ”I never figured you for the jealous type, Bones.” Yeah, but going by last night, Jim likes it.

“And I never figured you for a valet,” McCoy snaps, opening his eyes to shoot a glare at the smug idiot. His breath catches when he sees the tip of Jim’s tongue, the moistness of his lower lip, the intent expression on Jim’s face as he finishes lathering his beard.

“Multi-talented, that’s Jim Kirk,” he retorts, baring perfect teeth in a grin.

“Flyer, dancer, entrepreneur, “ McCoy closes his eyes again, extends a leg to hook it round Jim’s calf, “is there anything you can’t do?” His tone’s teasing and he knows Jim gets that because he feels his knees being pushed together. Jim sits astride McCoy’s thighs and his weight settles, then there’s a faint scrape as he opens up the folding razor.

“And I’m pretty good with knives, too,” Jim says. “Chin up, Bones.” McCoy obliges by shifting his groin a little since he’s beginning to feel a little constricted, a little cornered at the weight of him; the sensation of the blade against his throat as Jim begins to shave him, running the razor in smooth strokes across his Adam’s apple, a free hand holding him steady have him half-hard and wanting. “And you’ll need to keep _still_ …”

McCoy rests his hands on Jim’s hips while he works, can hear Jim’s breath become more shallow over the next few minutes, feels himself being soothed by the sound of the rasp of blade over beard, the clock ticking deep by his bed, the distant sounds of the horses whinnying somewhere behind him…

McCoy must have dozed off, because he comes to when he feels Jim stand and hears the tap of the razor against the bowl, the sound of more water being poured.

And he can’t remember the last time someone did something for him, just touched him with such care, nor the last time he _let_ someone. McCoy swallows, cracks open an eye to see Jim lean over with a wash cloth, an intent expression on his face as he begins to wipe away the soap, turning to rinse it. He repeats the action until McCoy’s skin tingles.

Jim straddles him again, and collects the towel from McCoy’s chest, uses it to dab at his throat and cheeks.

“There,” he says, leaning back to contemplate his handy work, “just one more thing—“

Jim reaches into his vest pocket for a small bottle of eau de cologne and pours some into the palm of his hand. He rubs his hands together, fans them across McCoy’s cheeks. It stings and Bones shifts, feeling his throat constrict with emotion.

“Jim,” he says, swallowing again, words cracking under the weight of this moment. Jim’s hands still on his face and McCoy circles his wrists and draws those long, pale fingers to his mouth and kisses the palms. “Thanks.”

Jim blinks, narrows his eyes, long dark lashes so close to McCoy that he can make out each individual one. He realizes he’s never had an opportunity to examine Jim freely like this, not in daylight, and his gaze rakes over the surface of Jim’s face, takes in the scars and blemishes, the eyes warm and chill all at once, snow and ice, and…he cuts the thought short, amused at his poor attempt at waxing lyrical.

“What’s tickling you, grumpy?” Jim says low and soft, so close to his face, breathing on his skin, warming him, making McCoy feel alive. No, snow and ice was just dumb.

“Oof!”

And his lips are smothered by lush, chapped, hungry ones. McCoy digs his fingers into Jim’s arms, moaning despite himself as he pushes his tongue into the eager mouth, Jim’s silk shirt sliding under his fingers. His thumbs hook in Jim’s suspenders, rubbing their embroidered motif as eagerly as he would Jim’s nipples, or cock, for this, _everything_ is all part of him.

He can feel how hard Jim is, difficult to avoid when Jim guides his hand and encourages McCoy to palm him through his pants. Jim’s licking McCoy’s cheeks now, his tongue rasping at him like a cat, fingers working open the mother of pearl buttons of his shirt. The chair creaks under their combined weights. Jim gasps, pulls away with a moan. McCoy grumbles, drags him back by his hair. “Shut up!” he says.

“What, I’m… _fuck_ , Bones—I didn’t say anything—“

“Well, I can hear you.”

“That’s what Spock would say,” Jim says with a chuckle, sitting upright, rubbing his thumb against his lower lip, like he’s scooping McCoy’s taste back into his mouth. “I like you like this, all, I dunno – exposed, clean. _That_ what you can hear me thinking? And…”

“And?”

“You aren’t fighting me.”

“I’m not?” and, “When was I?” Fighting himself, not Jim, always himself he suddenly understands, kicking against how much he wants this.

Jim shrugs, like it’s too complicated to go into at this juncture. “You need to finish getting ready.” He nods towards the trunk. “You got anything in there’ll make you look like a gentleman?”

“Sure I have – might smell of mothballs I warn you.”

“Well, put it on. I’ll be back in half an hour with the horses. We’re going into the city and you need to look real nice. Won’t take me as long to pretty up, but…ow!” He ducks, stands before McCoy can swipe him upside the head one more time.

Jim grins from the door. “And we’re staying over, so you’ve missed your train, I guess. That’s a real shame.”

“Yeah,” McCoy says from his chair, temporarily unable to move other than to adjust himself. Jim follows the movement, raises an eyebrow, smirks –

“So you haven’t got time to take care of _that_ \-- me neither.”

“I’ll just have to wait,” McCoy says, his voice a little broken, like Jim’s cut through more than his beard.

When Jim leaves, McCoy finds his wallet in his coat pocket, checks the money he’d put aside for a ticket, shrugs when he contemplates his father’s silver handled shaving brush and razor blade, which he’d planned to hock soon as he’d reached town. He opens his trunk, takes out the daguerreotype of Joanna and places it on the table.

“Daddy’s lost his mind, baby girl,” he sighs and digs into the trunk to find something that’ll turn Cinderella into a princess for one night at least.

+++

Jim’s jaw drops when he sees Bones: broad shouldered and slim-hipped, in a long coat, the color of eggplant, a pale blue, silk vest, an ivory, silk wing-collared shirt, a cravat to match the coat, and dark gray flannel pants that make his legs look even longer, the thighs more…

“What the hell are you gawping at?” Bones mutters coloring slightly, “Have I got something on my face?”

“Not yet, you haven’t,” Jim says smoothly. “Jesus, Bones – you clean up nice—quite the southern gentleman.“

“Well, don’t sound so damned surprised, idiot.” And there’s a rare half-smile that makes Jim’s heart flutter. He crouches by the horse and links his fingers so he can give Bones a leg up and resists the temptation to slap that fine ass when Bones stands in the stirrups to tuck his coat under.

“You’re right,” Jim says instead, “mothballs—“

“Well, I did warn you.”

Jim crooks a finger so Bones leans down to hear his whispered, “Don’t worry, in a couple of hours you’ll be covered in my scent and no one’ll even notice…” He ducks back; after all, the petulant doctor’s got a riding crop in his hand. “Here,” he smirks, and hands Bones his top hat. “Where d’ya get this from?”

“Borrowed it off Sulu,” Bones calls over his shoulder as his horse trots towards the lot’s entrance. “Originally figured his head would’a been too big, but, looks like I was wrong.”

Jim cups his hand, calls after him, “Yeah – you were!” Wrong about a great deal by the sounds of it, but he’s got the whole night to show Bones that. “Hey! Wait up!”

+++

They ride the few miles into New Orleans and McCoy marvels at Jim’s easy grace in the saddle. Naturally, Jim _would_ have a stallion no one else can get close to and, it would be too easy to have Nero gelded. McCoy grins when he remembers how Jim’s face turned pale when McCoy had suggested it, last time some idiot tried to mount the brute and got a kick. Jim covered Nero’s ears dramatically, like the horse understood or something.

“I like them wild, Bones, shh,” he said.

The way the animal’s eyes rolled, maybe it did understand, McCoy thinks now, watching the tall chestnut with wild eyes trot ahead.

When they reach the corner of Bourbon and Bienville, Jim raises his hand, pulls up and waits for McCoy to draw alongside.

“What do you think, Bones?”

“Jim?”

McCoy’s heard of this place -- who hasn’t? The Absinthe House is notorious, word reaching anyone who cares to know about these things, frequented by bohemian types, writers, artists and, what his not-so-beloved Jocelyn would have called them, _him_ , sodomites. McCoy’s shoulders slump. He looks up and down the street at the hawkers, the families walking past the boutiques and cafes, and he winces. _Damn_. Damn Jim Kirk and his blatant disregard for propriety.

“Bones, Bones, it’ll be fine.” Jim dismounts, runs his hand soothingly along the deep scars that decorate Nero’s neck. “Wait here, I’ll be back in a minute.”

McCoy holds their rides. Nero eyes him suspiciously but doesn’t shy away when Bones pats his neck. “Your master’s an asshole,” he mutters. Nero blows gently, flares his nostrils and bucks his head when a carriage rolls past.

A stable boy emerges and waits for McCoy to remove their saddlebags before leading the horses away. He can hear Nero whinnying in protest, wonders if he should have warned the boy to stand clear and rues the fact he didn’t bring his medical bag just in case.

He’s brought back to reality by a light touch to his arm. Jim’s grinning, folding his wallet into his back pocket and accompanied by a bright eyed youth who takes their bags and nods for them to follow.

 _Here goes…_

Jim’s watching McCoy’s face when they walk inside. He’s not been somewhere this ornate in a long while and the way the Absinthe House seems to repel all natural light soon as the door closes behind them, adds to the impression he’s entered into a scene from the darkest fairy tale. He scans the glittering interior, the gold mirrors, heavy candelabras and flocked wallpaper, and takes in the opulent palette of characters -- women smoking cigars and skin in every color variation.

They follow the boy past a polished green marble bar. Waiters move about behind it dressed in white shirts, black vests and long white aprons. The scent of anise and cigar smoke makes him gasp, and he glances at Jim who’s smiling reassuringly.

When they pass two men sitting at a small table, knee to knee and heads bowed close, Jim takes off his hat and gloves, says quietly: “It’s okay, Bones, we’re upstairs – it’ll be fine.”

Nevertheless, he’s relieved when they’re led up a narrow staircase and shown to their room, away from prying eyes. The boy leaves their saddlebags by the door and Jim hands him a coin, kicks the door closed and turns to McCoy.

He’s aching to kiss Jim and bend him over the brass bed laden with cushions at one end of the room, but Jim’s got other ideas. He places their hats and gloves on a nearby stand then moves to a low table by the window set with everything needed for the absinthe ritual.

A pair of high backed leather armchairs sit to either side, framed by the window overlooking the street below; heavy lace curtains guarantee privacy. McCoy watches Jim unbutton his coat, take the chair on the left. He moves reluctantly to settle opposite.

“You nervous, Bones?”

McCoy rolls his eyes, trying to unpick his feelings. He doesn’t know how much of this is tension at being around Jim and permanently half hard, or worry at having missed his train, or maybe just apprehension linked to the thought of taking the narcotic absinthe. He thinks about the couple, the two men he saw seated downstairs – maybe that’s it, _that_ same old fear…

“Maybe,” he concedes gruffly, crossing his legs.

“Well this’ll loosen you up,” Jim grins with an eyebrow waggle.

“Loosening up’s what’s got me thus far,” McCoy sighs. “If I’d kept a tight rein on myself, I wouldn’t be out on my ass, hanging around a bunch of miscreants and freaks for a living.“ He smiles to soften his words and Jim quirks his lips in response.

“You done this before, Bones?”

“No, I’ve heard tell naturally, but no—when you’re around narcotics as much as me, best to steer clear in the first place.”

“Makes sense, but that’s not what I meant.”

“Ah. . .” McCoy feels the tips of his ears color -- _that_ … “Yes.” He’s not even sure if he says it aloud.

“What was his name?” Jim’s leaning towards him, unwavering, infernally blue eyes narrowed and McCoy’s reminded of the way Jim exudes perfect calm and confidence before he mounts Nero.

Yet McCoy shakes his head, can’t bring himself to tell Jim about Cley, the best man at his wedding, how –- his throat constricts at the memory, the _shame_ , how Jocelyn wailed and did nothing to hide her disgust and hurt, how Cley pleaded for McCoy to stay. Nope, he’s not ready to tell that story, might never be. . . .

“I never question anything I want,” Jim says softly, not pushing but choosing instead, it seems, to reveal something of himself. “I’m not concerned with natural or unnatural – sure, I was surprised, you know, that first time, when you fixed me up, how it made me feel to be so close to you. It’s only been women before, but now, there’s you.”

McCoy’s silent for a while then says, “I’m not ashamed, Jim, it’s…”

“It’s what other people think, I know.”

Not just people – his friends, his family, his colleagues.

“We going to fucking drink, or what?”

Jim smiles, pulls the bottle of absinthe close and McCoy leans over the table to watch, breathing more easily -- the conversation over, for now.

Jim takes the bottle and pours a measure into each glass. He looks at McCoy from under thick lashes, then balances a perforated spoon across the rim of his. He places a cube of sugar in the center of the spoon and tilts the bottle of iced water delicately over it. They both watch as the sugar begins to dissolve and sweet drips fall into the liquid below changing, the absinthe from peridot-green to milky.

“The louche,” Jim explains, nodding at the glass, “the change – that’s what it’s known as.”

“You’re a veritable absinthe professor,” McCoy drawls, his eyes on Jim’s long fingers where he holds the carafe, allowing a drop at a time to soak the sugar cube. “This supposed to be an aphrodisiac?”

By way of an answer, Jim takes a sugar cube, places it on his tongue. McCoy swallows, watches plump lips move and chew through the sugar. Finally Jim licks his lips, leans to examine the absinthe mix and adds a measure of ice water.

“They do say absinthe unlocks your secrets,” Jim says and his eyes widen.

He hands the glass to McCoy who takes it apprehensively.

“I don’t need unlockin’, Jim.”

Jim snorts, loosens his cravat and leans back in the armchair, his hair’s tied up in a loose pony tail and McCoy wonders how long it’ll be before he cracks and he’s got that mane wrapped in his hands again. He feels another shot of heat pass through him and has to look away from Jim’s penetrating gaze to the glass in his hand. The way the cool water bleeds into the alcohol, he’s reminded of sunsets at home, the slow advance of red and gold into the fading sky.

McCoy knows enough that he’s convinced the talk of how absinthe makes some hallucinate is romantic foolishness, yet his cautious nature baulks against what he’s about to do. Maybe this is why Jim’s brought him here in the first place, maybe there’s some symbolism in this decadent act which, for now, escapes him.

He waits for Jim to prepare a glass for himself, enjoying the strong aroma of the anise assaulting his nostrils like a cool breeze. McCoy watches Jim in silence, yet again awed, but no longer surprised, at how adept Jim is at every task he applies himself to.

“We’ll dine later,” Jim says, glancing at him, sitting back in his chair and bringing the glass to his nose, half closing his eyes and a smile forming at the corner of his mouth.

“Sure,” McCoy says taking his first sip, eyes fixed on Jim the whole time. The flavor is complex: first, the burst of anise, then a perfect combination of bitter wetness followed by a burn on the roof of his mouth, then a warm rasp in his throat as he swallows.

Jim smiles reassuringly and reaches into his breast-pocket for a cigar. He clips the end, lights it from the candle on the table and hands it to McCoy.

McCoy takes another sip then a pull on the cigar, taking his time to release a pair of smoke rings between them. He’s dimly aware of the sounds in the street below, the roll of carriage wheels, the voices from the bar, ripples of laughter soaking through the walls and floor, making the room seem even more of a cocoon. Jim’s voice cuts through his reveries.

“Where’d you feel it, Bones?”

McCoy feels his eyes drop to half mast as he mentally scans so he can answer the question.

“My cheeks,” he says, “the top of my head—“ It’s true. McCoy’s scalp feels like it’s been anointed with warm water. He rolls his neck against the head rest and contemplates the now slightly flushed man sitting across from him, and sips again, this time allowing the absinthe to coat his tongue, the inside of his cheeks for longer, kiss its way into his blood-stream more slowly. “Now, I’m just warm all over, I…”

He slides down in his seat a little, rests the glass on the polished wood before them, takes in the candle light dancing through the tall stems of glass, the shadows cast on Jim’s beautiful face, the way his dirty blond hair appears almost golden in the light of the fire blazing in the grate.

“Tell me,” Jim whispers, leaning to take the cigar from McCoy’s fingers, pulling at it in a leisurely movement. A plume of blue smoke rises to the ceiling, hangs thick above their heads; it’s like everything around them is muted, slowed by the green fairy.

“I’m remembering something -- it’s a dream, one I’ve had more than once, I realize. I’ve not been able to remember properly until now.” _Or willing to_. . . . McCoy closes his eyes to sharpen the image, the sensations and emotions. The absinthe makes him feels safe, curiously sated and full, like those fleeting moments just before Jim pulls out of him and they fall asleep together, all the fight in McCoy temporarily doused.

“Tell me…”

McCoy feels the glass pressed into his hand again and he raises it to his lips like a chalice. The absinthe is sweeter this time and he runs his tongue over his teeth, draws his bottom lip in to suck out the last of the taste, the ensuing warmth into himself and he remembers, sees, _feels_ , how he’s floating in a warm pool of water…

“I… I’m in water, I think, and it’s warm, I’m floating, and I can feel it caressing me as I move through it. It’s like I can breathe underwater, like I’m some kinda creature of the deep, hiding out from the world. Feels right…” He can hear the creak of Jim’s boots as he shifts on the other side of the table, hears him say—

“Go on, I want to know.”

“There’s shadows, figures swimmin’ in there with me. Everything’s green, blue, swirling around me, warming my skin…” McCoy moves towards the first figure and as he approaches he sees a swirl of blond hair and stills in the water. “I want to know who they are…” The leather armchair seems to hold McCoy in place, his back heavy and warm against the soft material, his thighs falling apart as he feels a wave of peace loosen his tongue. “It’s Daddy. He’s--he’s looking at me and he takes my hand in his, so cool, dry even in the water—“ And that ache inside, the one McCoy’s become so proficient at smothering, surfaces again.

Even while giving himself over to his ‘dream’, part of McCoy analyses the mix of emotions released by the drink. The absinthe floods him with a sense of well-being, so he’s a bird riding currents of warm air; yet it also unleashes hurt and regret and guilt. Maybe this is something like his father experienced when he injected the deadly dose of opiates -- McCoy feels a surge of relief –– did he in fact help the man to truly feel, _be_ in his last moments?

The scent of the cigar, Jim’s presence, the absinthe open him up, form a blanket of comfort around him, and McCoy grips the stem of the glass through the storm of memory. He doesn’t take another sip, doesn’t need to in order to find the courage to go on. “He lets go of me, Jim, he swims away to the surface of the pool or lake, or wherever the hell it is we are, and I _let him_.” McCoy pauses, feels tears prick and he turns away in the dream, swimming with long, strong strokes deeper into the water surrounding him.

“What do you see, Bones?” Jim’s voice is soft and seeps into McCoy’s chest, his throat, his head, like it’s physical, surrounding.

“I’m alone, there’s a patch of blue and gold in the water… I can see another figure swimming away from me—“ And McCoy knows who this is too, swims forwards, but not quite daring to close the gap between them. “I…I reach out, my fingers don’t seem to… and then the figure—“ Turns to meet him, golden hair swirling about his head and blue eyes, white teeth – Jim.

“Bones?”

It’s an enormous effort to open his eyes, to look at the man in front of him, to willingly leave the safety of the pool of water, to swim upwards to the light. The touch of Jim’s hand to his, the sureness of it, pulls him back. He looks at that oh-so young face, at the expression of curiosity, patience and he stands up on shaking legs, the chair scraping and catching in the rug. Jim watches him round the table, and rests his cigar in the ash tray. The Green Fairy, the bottle of absinthe, seems to glow on the table.

“I’ve had enough,” McCoy says simply and feels a slight thrill at the flicker of worry he sees pass across Jim’s face. “Stand up.” Jim does, stepping away from the armchair so he’s an inch from McCoy’s face. “I’m not like you,” McCoy says, bringing his mouth close to Jim’s ear but not touching him.

“I know,” Jim says simply.

McCoy lifts a hand, wavers a finger close to Jim’s cheek who doesn’t flinch, or move, just waits, breathing heavily. “You’re…you don’t care what people think of you.”

“And you do.” It’s a simple statement, so much truth there, encapsulating all the pain that’s followed McCoy everywhere, before his marriage, during – means he’s taken so many wrong turns in his life.

“Most everyone else cares, Jim. This…” and he touches Jim’s face, runs a finger the length of his jaw, steps closer, “…this, the scandal, it’s almost ruined me, almost cost me my license. If Jocelyn, my wife, hadn’t felt pity for me in the end, hadn’t wanted to protect our daughter.”

“So what? You’re going to spend the rest of your life doing this, hiding from what you want?”

The distance between McCoy’s fingers and Jim’s skin seems a chasm.

“What I _want_ , Jim, is to heal people,” he croaks past the lump in his throat.

“You can do that—you _do_ …” Jim leans his head into McCoy’s touch and his skin’s burning, his pupils enlarged from the effects of the absinthe, “And?” Jim says so quietly his voice is almost drowned by the pounding in McCoy’s chest, “What else do you want, Bones?”

“Plenty,” McCoy says and he licks his lips, feels a column of heat build in his belly, flood his chest and arms and burn his face. “Why can’t you leave me be, Jim?”

“I don’t want to. You don’t want me to.”

He’s well aware that Jim’s not pushing, not leading – it’s always been that way before; McCoy’s been the passive one, reneging responsibility, covering his fear in a shroud of anger and fight. Consoling himself that this was all about _Jim’s_ persistence and how could he offer any resistance to the tidal wave that was Jim Kirk’s desire? He thinks about the figure in the water, the one his dream showed him. And it’s funny, he’d never have had Jim down as a patient man, someone who could bide his time, who could wait like this, watch him think this through.

McCoy takes up Jim’s glass of absinthe; there’s a finger left in the bottom of it and he knocks it back, notices how Jim watches his throat when he leans back. He doesn’t swallow, instead presses his lips to Jim’s and groans inwardly when Jim’s mouth opens without question and accepts the offering. He rests his hand around Jim’s throat to feel him swallow, breathing against his mouth, the scent of anise tickling his nostrils, the heat of Jim’s mouth melting what little doubt may have been left, and he remembers the sight of the sugar crumbling under the iced water on the absinthe spoon. He slides his tongue into Jim’s mouth, chasing the green fairy, finding instead flesh and blood and acceptance.

Jim’s eyes are closed and McCoy wonders if he too is seeing something, remembering. “What can you see, Jim?”

Jim opens his eyes, scans McCoy’s face. “You,” he says simply.

Perhaps Jim isn’t as patient as McCoy thought after all, not the way his hands are twisting in McCoy’s hair, the way he’s trying to fuse them together and McCoy pushes his knee between Jim’s thighs, bends him back slightly so he can begin to assault his throat and jaw and bestow sticky kisses on every inch of bare flesh he can find. It’s not enough – they break apart and McCoy cants his head to examine the flushed amused face.

“You want plenty, huh?” Jim says pulling a strand of his hair away from his face where it’s stuck to his lips.

“You’re like a stallion, needs taming,” McCoy croaks, “showing—“

“So do it,” Jim says, unwavering, staring him down, short breaths making his chest rise and fall, “if you’re man enough, that is…”

McCoy slams his mouth against Jim’s again, but this time there’s no thought to the pleasure he or Jim will gain from the contact -- this time he bites, tears at Jim’s lips, draws and sucks Jim’s tongue into himself as if he can consume him, own him. While Jim doesn’t struggle, McCoy finds himself being guided towards the bed, Jim’s hand on his lower back like he’s performing that infernal tango again.

“No,” he says, pushing Jim so he lands on the bed, soaking up the sight of him in his highly pressed, dandy finery. Jim laughs, shakes his head.

“So, you’re an animal trainer now, as well as a doctor and clown?”

“I’m no clown, Jim. Now shut up and let me take off your boots.” McCoy turns and Jim rests a boot against McCoy’s back while McCoy tugs at the other. He tosses the boot away and grabs the other leg. When he’s done, he faces Jim again, removes his coat, allows it to fall to the floor, unbuttons his vest, leans down to remove his boots, all the while his eyes raking over Jim’s slender form. He opens his flies and pulls out his cock, gasping at the first touch since the night before. Jim follows the movement, licks his lips.

“What you gonna do with that, Bones?” Jim’s eyes are sparkling with playfulness, amusement. He’ll soon wipe that grin off the kid’s face, and McCoy tugs at himself, no time for finesse or niceties.

“Get undressed,” McCoy commands, suddenly feeling a strength of purpose he’s not experienced in a long while. “I’m going to show you what I want, and what _you_ want, too, seems like, and I’m going to take my sweet time---“

Jim obliges, but he’s teasing, reminding McCoy he’s not so pliant, the bastard, just so as to annoy him.

McCoy tries not to glower, stays where he is standing at the foot of the bed, stroking his cock in a leisurely fashion while he watches Jim slowly unbutton, peel aside and shed the layers of wool and silk. Eventually he’s stripped to the waist, and McCoy indulges himself in an uninhibited view of milky opalescence, skin that rarely sees the sun, the fine hairs on Jim’s chest, the honey colored armpits, the light sheen of sweat on Jim’s brow. He drags his eyes from Jim’s wanton expression to the trail of hair inviting him lower.

It’s like Jim can read his mind. “What’s up, Bones? Am I taking too long for you?”

And before either of them can say ‘Charles Darwin’, McCoy’s thrown a chuckling Jim back down onto the bed, and he’s guiding Jim’s long legs around his back, while he tongue fucks Jim’s navel, growling obscenities into his belly, fumbling at Jim’s fly buttons in a clumsy attempt to pull his cock free.

Jim’s hands run through McCoy’s hair, neither encouraging nor preventing him in his efforts. He’s still laughing, taunting.

“So this is how you perform surgery is it? All pokes and fumbles and— _Jesus_!”

McCoy manages to get at least half of Jim’s cock down his throat at the first attempt, doesn’t bother to ease the passage by covering it in saliva first; nope, he’s got a notion this needs to be rough, about two men, nothing soft and gentle, not this time, not when he’s trying to make a point.

Jim bucks under him, and McCoy tries not to gag at the movement, clamps Jim still with his hands, giving himself over to the scent and taste of him, musky, animal, male. He feels Jim shift his legs, clamp rough wool covered thighs around his head to push him away, and when the grip doesn’t loosen, McCoy lets go of Jim’s cock. He instantly regrets it – seems Jim’s picked up a few tricks from the tumblers, damn him, and he uses strong thighs to pull McCoy up into a kneeling position. His eyes are burning, predatory while he contemplates McCoy’s furious face.

“Once more round the paddock?” he smirks, grabbing McCoy’s shoulders, his nails digging through the silk of his shirt. “You look good on your knees.” His finger drags under McCoy’s chin, teasing it up for a quick kiss, then twisting so his legs are free and he can stand.

McCoy doesn’t move, waits for the right moment and when Jim’s behind him, he half turns so he can catch his legs and bundle him to the floor. He straddles him, pins one of Jim’s hands above his head, amused by how he feigns a struggle. He drags Jim’s pants and underwear down, eyes fixed on his face contorted in a grimace while he strains against him.

“Half-hearted,” he whispers into Jim’s chest then bites down on his caramel nipples, one after the other, his cock throbbing in response to the moan this draws out of him. “You want me to cow you, only you’re afraid of what that means, aren’t you?”

Jim catches McCoy’s wrists, rolls him to the carpet, sits up and pulls him in for a bruising kiss. “And there I was thinking it was _you_ who liked to be held down, begging for me to fuck you…” He lifts McCoy to a standing position and presses his body flush against his, his cock long and hard clamped between them. “You’re wearing too many clothes and yeah, I know I promised I’d cover you, them, in my scent but I wanna look at you, look at what’s mine.”

McCoy feels a puff of air leave his nostrils, and in another tangle of limbs and grunts, he manages to wrestle Jim onto the bed again, belly first, his hands looped behind his back. He kicks Jim’s ankles apart so he’s splayed open for him. “Shut the fuck up. You don’t own no one in this room; no one needs teaching a lesson like you—“ And before Jim can protest he’s pushed his chin against Jim’s balls, his tongue deep inside him, thinks he might come from the sound of the moans being torn from Jim’s throat. He licks and thrusts, his jaw aching within minutes at the effort, the violence with which he’s assaulting Jim’s hole. He risks letting go of his wrists, slips to the floor again and drags Jim by the ankles so he can kneel down again, get a better angle, and use his thumbs to open him, get deeper, closer.

Jim’s up on his elbows, pushing against McCoy’s tongue. McCoy sits back on his ankles, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Like that, kid? Like me opening you up?”

Before Jim can form a coherent response, McCoy’s back to work with fingers and tongue. He takes in the sight of him, the darker skin round Jim’s hole, the marks his hands and nails have left on his ass cheeks; he takes a calming breath and then pushes his thumb in with no finesse. Jim whines, gasps and then he’s practically sitting on McCoy’s hand, pushing his ass back onto it.

“See, you like to be taken, you jus’ didn’t know it before this – now stay there, kid, I’m just fetching the oil.”

The ceramic bottle’s in his coat pocket, and McCoy rests the lid near the absinthe spoon, watches from the table where he slicks himself up, drinking in the sight of the pale long back, the strong curve of Jim’s ass, the hair on his thighs as Jim waits for him, murmuring impatience and dissent even now.

“On your back, Jim,” he manages to say, his throat constricting at the way Jim’s looking over his shoulder at him from under hooded eyes. “Want to see your face, appreciate the moment you break.”

Jim turns wearily and places his hands under his knees so he can spread his legs wide. McCoy takes what’s left of his drink to the bed with his clean hand, places it and the oil on the bedside table. “No, scoot up, I need your ass on the edge of the bed, I’m getting sore knees here.” While Jim rearranges himself vertically, McCoy lowers his pants and underwear finally, kicks them clear, toes off his socks and kneels on the edge of the bed.

“You scared, Jim? Think I’m gonna hurt ya?”

Jim shakes his head, parts his lips invitingly. “Never scared of you, Bones. Come on, get to it—“ He pulls his knees to his chest, raises his head off the mattress to watch McCoy oil his fingers.

“Got to get you ready, it burns first time, always does—“

Jim nods, gasps, blows out several ragged breaths as McCoy works a finger deep inside. Transfixed by the sight of his darker skin entering Jim, McCoy gives his cock a reassuring stroke. “Touch yourself, Jim, it’ll help ease things,“ McCoy says, noticing how Jim’s flagging. “Work in time with me.”

As ever, Jim’s a fast learner and, by the time McCoy’s got three fingers up to the last knuckle, he’s panting, grumbling, cocky as ever. “Come _on_ , you gonna ‘tame’ me before I fall asleep…”

McCoy pulls his hand free, wipes it on the bed, kneels on the edge of the mattress, leans over Jim and braces one arm by his head. Jim looks up at him defiantly, parts his lips and McCoy wonders how he’s neglected that mouth for all these minutes. He bends to kiss plump, bruised lips, his tongue slipping and sliding as easily into Jim’s slick mouth as his fingers were inside him a moment ago.

He takes one last nip at Jim’s lower lip, drawing it out between his teeth gently, reveling in the hitched moans, the feel of Jim’s cock sliding in pre-come across his stomach, when he feels a sudden grip to his shoulders and Jim flips him over onto his back with a triumphant laugh. He’s so surprised, it gives Jim time to straddle his thighs. “Son of a gun…” McCoy growls, trying to hide his amusement. Jim’s above him, hair tangled and lush, his face twisted in that infernal smirk.

“In actual fact…old man,” Jim says lowering himself into position, guiding McCoy’s cock so he can begin to push down and home, “you oughtta know…oh, _fuck_ …Kirk senior was a sailor…not a… _Jesus_ …son of a gun.”

McCoy lets out a long moan; part of his brain processes this snippet of information, and he determines to quiz Jim, find out more about his background, but for now, he’s concentrating on not coming. McCoy stares in awe at Jim’s face, at the beautiful grimaces of pleasure pain when he’s first breached. With trembling fingers, McCoy reaches, grips the base of his cock and squeezes tight, before it’s all over. Jim’s eyes shoot open at the movement and he presses down another inch, eyes locked with McCoy’s, breathing short, harsh breaths as he nudges down.

McCoy helps him balance with one hand, whispers, “Tilt forward, Jim.” And Jim drops onto his hands so McCoy can take over, edge in so, so slowly, his heart bursting – in that moment, he knows he’s the first and only man Jim’s ever kissed, realizes he’s known that from that first time when he tended Jim’s wound all those months ago. He glances down at Jim’s thigh, at Missy’s handiwork, the still pink scar which runs almost down to his knee, and runs a possessive thumb along it.

Jim sees, understands, links his fingers with his and says, “Okay, dance over.” He braces and shoves down the last few inches, throwing his head back at the burn, gasping, baring his teeth.

McCoy doubts he’s ever seen anything so fucking beautiful in his life, the way Jim's hair frames that strong jaw, the muscular column of his neck, the way he composes himself, then nods, giving McCoy permission to move.

It’s when he sits up on his knees, when the angle changes, when McCoy increases the pace that Jim lets out a wild cry, looks at McCoy in wonder, lips pursed in surprise.

“Finally hit home, huh?” McCoy grins.

“Jesus _fuck_ \-- so why you stopping now?”

“Well, I thought I’d just watch my broken-in stallion!”

Jim doesn’t appear to have the energy to make a come back, too focused on the cluster of nerves he’s just discovered, so McCoy takes pity on him, and starts to thrust up with a more punishing rhythm, his hands stroking up Jim’s lean abdomen, stopping when he reaches his nipples. He pinches them hard, then moves to grab Jim’s cock that’s so tight, red and beautiful, velvet against the palm of his hand. He twists then rubs his thumb across the head.

McCoy increases the pace, his cock sliding so easily now, Jim making endless, choked desperate noises above him until he stills, opens his eyes wide, the color of the pool from McCoy’s dream he realizes with a helpless moan, just as Jim comes for what seems like an eternity, pushing back, so tight and hot around McCoy’s cock.

“Bones, Bones…” Jim slumps forward and McCoy struggles to breathe, he’s so overwhelmed by the debauched image of Jim with stripes of come all over his belly and chest, runs his hand through it, pulls Jim by the hair so his mouth's close, so he’s slumped across McCoy’s chest.

McCoy kisses him long and hard, decides at that moment that he’s fallen so hard he can’t imagine ever giving this up, can’t tell Jim, it’s not in his nature – well, not at this present moment and shit, he’s still hard as hell. He eases out, rolls Jim onto his back, scoops some of Jim’s come into his hand and uses it to slick up again, then pulls one of his legs up onto his shoulder and pushes in again in one thrust. Jim arches his back, watches him with glassy, black eyes, throws his arms over his head and McCoy lifts him higher, increases the intensity of the angle, his arms shaking under him as he powers into Jim.

“So tight,” he manages to say, “not letting you go, fuck… Jim….”

It starts somewhere in the base of his spine he thinks, a flare of heat and he shuts his eyes, breaths deep, fuel for the flame that combusts in every direction, through his belly, his thighs, like the water through absinthe, and he can hear Jim encouraging him, can feel Jim’s hands on his shoulders until McCoy’s vision seems to blur to milky white and he collapses to the side on his face, after shocks drawing the last vestige of strength from him.

After some minutes, he realizes he’s still wearing his shirt though it’s sweat soaked and clinging to him.

“We need to do this again,” he croaks into the pillows. Jim’s hand’s in his hair, loose and limp against the back of his sweat soaked neck.

“Gimme a minute to recover, Bones,” he sighs out, humor, bravado in his voice.

“Not now, asshole, I mean, you know, sometime with _both_ of us butt naked.”

“You debauched sodomite,” Jim laughs. “I think that’s a step too far!”

For once the word doesn’t hurt spoken with such affection, such levity, and McCoy struggles to a seated position, removes his shirt and his vest, his undershirt and balls them up, throws them across the room. He gazes down at Jim’s spent cock and presses a light kiss to it.

“You’ve killed it,” Jim sighs, “and broken my ass. How am I gonna ride back in the morning?”

“You’ll have to ride like the English, with your ass in the air,” McCoy runs his index finger through what’s left of the come on Jim’s chest, pushes it into his mouth, licks his lips. “Though a sight like that, I might have to make you pull off the road, find somewhere to take you in the woods.”

He circles Jim’s asshole, wets his finger with his own come and anoints Jim’s face with it, running the pad across his eyebrows, twisting his fingers in the ends of his hair. He goes back for more and paints Jim’s cheek, feeling the rasp of his stubble against his skin. “So’s it’s clear I’m the _last_ , too,” he explains, his voice breaking a little.

Jim stares at him, takes so long to say anything that McCoy wonders if he’s played this wrong, exposed himself too much.

“So who won that one, Bones, you or me?”

“Do you feel broken in?”

“Just my ass, but that doesn’t count.” Jim winks, pulls McCoy down so they’re lying side by side, staring at the chandelier above them, the room’s almost in darkness, night drawing in, the fire glowing in the grate. “I class that as a draw. No _way_ I lost—“

“Unbelievable, “ McCoy mutters sliding down the bed to draw Jim’s flaccid cock into his mouth, “re-match then…”

+++

Christmas morning, they breakfast on beignets and hot chocolate in their room in comfortable silence. In less than an hour they’ll be back on the lot, ready to help organize the Christmas feast.

They kiss long and hard, steeling themselves before they’re ready to step through the door, aware they won’t be able to touch for hours, till they’re alone again.

“We should go to Paris, Jim, or Berlin, somewhere more—“ Bones says, buttoning up his coat.

“Bohemian? Accepting?” Jim shakes his head, hands Bones his hat. “We don’t need to go anywhere --things are changing here too and, you know, maybe we’ll set a new fashion…” Jim sees McCoy stiffen a little.

“I dunno, Jim.”

“Hey, I’m not suggesting we have a wedding, Bones. Just saying, I’m done running away, I did plenty of that when I was a kid.” He smoothes a thumb through Bones’ furrowed brow, watches his expression soften with a surge of happiness. “I’ve found a real family, the kind you make out of the pieces you need, and you’re the one makes that complete. We’re not leaving... “

Bones nods, looks Jim in the eye. “Sure, we’ll change things here, okay?”

“And you…“ Jim picks up the saddle bags. “No more ‘goddamned’ trains to catch.”

“You imitating my voice, kid, ‘cause if so, I’ll put you over my knee.”

Fuck, that snarl goes straight to his cock every time. Jim bounces down the stairs ahead of him. “Promises, promises, Bones,” he grins over his shoulder, reveling in the scowl this elicits.

They wait for the horses to be brought round and Jim draws in the clear, winter air, glances at the tall, handsome doctor at his side.

“You cut quite a dashing figure, doctor, in your borrowed hat and crumpled shirt.”

“You talk like a cheap romance novel, the kind maids read between emptying chamber pots,” McCoy grouches, but his cheeks are flushed.

“And you _love it_ ,” Jim grins, clapping him on the shoulder. “Come on, saddle up, Bones. We’ve got suckling pig, turtle soup, bread pudding, and a heap of booze waiting back home.”

Bones rolls his eyes and smirks when Jim settles gingerly on Nero’s back.

“You know something, kid, I think I do love it, I really do.“

~END~

 

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